Delicacy
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: Beckett clenched his fists. He hated her obscenely polite manners, why it was a very mockery of her person. A woman with bloodstained hands and breeches shouldn’t be polite.
1. Chapter One

**Author's Note: **It's official, I have no life. Well, actually I do. I've just been ignoring it lately due to vicious, unforgiving plot bunnies. I came up with this idea while working on yet another separate writing project and it wouldn't let me be. So I've decided to submit it here for your judgment and hopefully, pleasure. Mrs. Prior is an entirely different from the characters I am accustomed to writing, a character who is more than mostly evil and I don't know what you'll think of her. But as always, I'm open to your thoughtful feedback. Also, this story will contain a Beckett/Elizabeth pairing, although Miss Swann will not make an appearance until the next chapter. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread many times) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I do hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean or Lord Beckett. However, I do own Mrs. Prior, Polly and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter One**

Polly heard boots on the stairs sometime around midnight and she stopped scrubbing the floor at once.

One, two, three, four, five.

Each step matched a heartbeat. Her pulse jumped, her heart lodging somewhere high in her throat.

One, two, three, four, five.

She recognized the cautious tread. Hesitant it was, not ponderous like a soldier's step, not quick and light like Lord Beckett's. No, the footsteps were whispers, soft sounds that touched the silence but barely broke it.

Polly dropped her rag back into the greasy bucket, her hands braced upon the soapy floor.

One, two, three, four, five.

Fear curled in her gut and it was an unnamed fear, terror born of something perceived in the shadows but never seen. Polly found her feet and pressed herself against the cool comfort of the wall. Perhaps she would be ignored, servants usually were.

And then a pause, a dreadful pause that made Polly twist and twine her hands in her grimy apron. She waited. 

The shadows seemed to part at last, giving way to a white face and two sharp eyes. Polly watched as the woman slipped down the hall and a faint rustling followed her, the murmur of a cloak being dragged on the floor.

And despite her fear, Polly tried not to let her overwhelming disdain show. She hated the creature, the ghost that came and went and then came again. Oh how she waited for the day when the woman would never return, the woman who let blood rot beneath her fingernails.

The figure paused only halfway down the corridor. Bile shot into Polly's mouth. The bucket…she had forgotten.

Slowly, the woman pushed the wash bucket away with the very tip of her toe. Polly shrank against the wall and hid from her accusing gaze.

"You'll want to watch for that," the woman said softly.

"Yes, Mrs. Prior." And because habit demanded it, Polly curtsied.

Mrs. Prior laughed, her chilled, low laugh that froze and died in the darkness.

"Stupid girl," she muttered to herself, "to curtsey for one such as me. Stupid girl."

* * *

Lord Beckett tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk, the cadence resembling some half remembered march from years past.

One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four five.

Legato disintegrated into staccato just as his patience surrendered to annoyance. Where was she? By God, she had a wretched habit of being late.

There was an empty glass of port perched nearby. The last dark droplets of the libation had long since evaporated into the sticky air and Beckett stared at the glass like the tempted Adam. But no, spirits made him sleepy and he could not run the risk of dozing now. She might sneak up on him then and oh how he hated that.

The balcony windows had been shuttered already, permitting only muffled night sounds to enter his office. A sailor's curse, accompanied by raucous laughter echoed against the wooden slats and locked windows. Beckett listened for thunder, hoping, praying, for a late storm to relieve the torturous heat. A thin stream of sweat coursed steadily down his brow.

One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.

The march had shifted into a jaunty country dance. Where was she?

A creak and a crack heralded the opening of the door. Beckett straightened in his chair.

"Mrs. Prior?"

"Yes, my lord."

He relaxed. "Why the delay, if I might ask. You were due an hour ago."

"My apologies." Mrs. Prior shut the door behind her, keeping to her place in the shadows, shying from the candlelight pooling around Beckett's desk.

"Is it finished?" He searched the black for her, morbid curiosity straining his eyes. Beckett knew her form and features well, but still, he was not one to look away. "Come closer."

His summons obviously wasn't agreeable to Mrs. Prior. She sighed and let her cloak fall from her shoulders, stepping forward only after a moment of great hesitation.

Beckett ceased drumming his fingers. "Is it finished?" he asked again as she moved into the candlelight.

"Yes, my lord, though I had a hard time of it."

"Well, I never expected it to be easy."

Mrs. Prior stood with her hands folded before her, head bowed. She had her hair tied back in a queue and her frame was more mannish this night, her bosom masterfully hidden beneath a dark coat.

Not that there was much to hide, Beckett thought with a pinch of disappointment. Pity. He would have much enjoyed her otherwise.

But Mrs. Prior's duties were not of the whorish kind, at least not most nights when his boredom was scarce. No, she had a singular ability, a rare trait that he harvested for his own use.

Her face was round, childish…innocent.

Beckett leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands onto his knees. Not many people suspected her of wrongdoing when she hurried through the streets with her skirts covered in blood. No, she was a midwife or so she told passersby. And it was perfectly normal for a woman of such a trade to bear the mark of her work.

No one suspected the young woman who frequented taverns and plied men with practiced words and drinks.

Certainly, no one suspected the quiet young boy who liked to take walks through the mist on some chilly nights and watch sailors go about their duty aboard Navy ships.

And of course, no one suspected the keeper of the bachelor's Beckett's household as anything more than a mistress.

Beckett beckoned Mrs. Prior closer, curling his right index finger in a dangerous sort of way. She understood and reached inside her coat for a packet of letters. They were thrown carelessly on the desk.

"From the governor?" he asked, his hands lilting upon the very top of the packet.

"To colleagues in England," she replied. "He's worried about that Lord Beckett."

"Good girl. I trust you found your way into his house?"

Mrs. Prior shifted. "About that delay, my lord, there was a gardener, you see. He didn't believe I was a young lad just out and about for the night."

"Oh?"

"I had to do away with him, my lord. No one heard, no one noticed."

Beckett's lips folded into a grateful smile. "Good girl."

Silence and Beckett hated her silence. Mrs. Prior wasn't the sort to offer an opinion, keeping her lips pursed in that straight, thin line that tormented him. Beckett often wondered what brewed in her mind, what unseemly dark things festered and grew.

He stood, pushed back his throne of a chair and rounded the desk. Mrs. Prior took a nervous step back. Beckett smiled, loving her justified fear. Even a murderess was terrified of him.

"Camilla," he addressed her by her given name and it seemed like a sin almost, to undress the creature with such a casual title. "I should like to know what you think of this business."

"I haven't many thoughts, my lord," she said. "I only do what I'm told.

"Oh come now, don't act the idiot."

She said nothing, but bowed her head. Beckett clenched his fists. He hated her obscenely polite manners, why it was a very mockery of her person. A woman with bloodstained hands and breeches shouldn't be polite.

"What should I do with Swann? Hmm? You must have an opinion, I daresay. You've threatened the man enough."

Again, she bowed her head. "Yes, my lord."

"Well?"

More hesitancy, more caution and by God, he hated it so. Mrs. Prior eyes shifted from the carpet to his boots and then finally came to rest on his shins.

"I would kill his daughter," she said in a hopeful whisper. "She's of no use to us and only serves to distract him."

"Yes, but it isn't quite so simple as that." Beckett crossed his arms over his waist. "Why?"

She didn't like to be prodded and her narrowed eyes were evidence of such. "The governor is plotting to send her to England. He's been in contact with a ship captain, a friend."

"Then why not kill the acquaintance instead?

"I'd much rather kill her."

Beckett touched her shoulder. "You have a strange way about you, a singular way, a curious way."

She dared to meet his gaze then. "I only do what I am told, my lord."

"Then give me a kiss."

Mrs. Prior complied, her cold widow's lips touching his, lingering for a moment and then drawing away. Beckett swallowed a disappointed sigh. The woman had no passion about her.

"You know, even I would be called _ruthless_ for sending the governor's daughter to the gallows," he said.

Mrs. Prior smiled and it was just a hint of a delighted smile. "I've been to the prison, my lord and it's in a awful state. If a deranged man had enough strength, he might break free and throttle the poor girl. She's alone in there, she is. No one would notice, no one would hear."

And then Beckett remembered why he hired her in the first place. "Good girl."

It was as much a dismissal as any other and Mrs. Prior took it as such. She bowed her head once more, took up her cloak and left the shadow laden office. But for a good while, Beckett still heard her footsteps in the hall.

One, two, three, four, five.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Two**

Beckett waited until Mrs. Prior had left before he fetched another glass of port, unlatched the shuttered windows and took to the balcony. A soldier slumbered, his back pressed to the railing, his chin upon his chest. The stiff stench of rum poisoned the night air. Beckett's nostrils flared and he cast a derisive look at the slovenly man.

The sea purred, the waves touching the shoreline briefly and pulling away. All things were quite silent, with only a lazy sailor or two loitering about the docks and trading bawdy jests. Beckett ran his tongue along his teeth and pressed his lips to the goblet. The finely cut glass was cold, lifeless-a fair imitation of Mrs. Prior's kiss.

Beckett drained the goblet at once and set it down on the railing, needing to feel the rush of warmth surge through his body. Passion he certainly lacked and the absence of it in his life left him surprisingly empty.

Mrs. Prior, while eager to please in her own way, was a horrid lover. She was obedient, not lustful. Still and compliant, not unruly and challenging. Kisses pressed to her bare flesh were ignored and tender words of pretended sentiment slipped past her ears without notice.

Oh, how she annoyed him in a strange way.

Lazy tendrils of smoke drifted past Beckett's face and touched his cheeks. He squinted.

A shadow moved through the streets below and he recognized the long, concentrated stride that kept the figure close to walls and blackened alleys. Mrs. Prior was obsessively careful about her work and Beckett had every reason to trust her…but he didn't.

No, there was something frantic about her, a harried edge that kept her eyes wide, almost fearful. Of course, fear worked to his advantage and she was easy enough to control. She needed little and asked for less, craving only for care and steady shelter. Beckett was able to provide well for her and his care came in the form of lavish praises, more suited for a dog than a woman, however.

Mrs. Prior obeyed him, clung to his every word and did only what he asked. He should be happy, content with her service. And yet, there was something in the way she murmured in her sleep, that dark, haunted way that aroused hidden fears in his heart.

"The candle. The candle."

Or sometimes she would weep and her angry tears would soak the sheets along with their sweat.

"I've forgotten it. The candle. I've forgotten."

He knew her mantras well and they burdened his rest until he banished her from his chamber altogether and sent her to sleep in the servant's dependency. And she would look at him with hurt, violated eyes and slope off.

She made him feel guilty, for some horrid reason. But he had done no wrong, unlike her. He was not a murderer.

The soldier stirred and sniffed loudly. His bloodshot eyes cracked open. "Oh, my lord!" The man found his feet and propped up his musket.

"I ought to have you lashed," Beckett muttered.

The soldier shook his head and his stubble covered jaw went slack. "My lord, I-"

"Enough, it's enough." Beckett waved his hand and kept his eyes fixed on the labyrinth of streets. The figure had disappeared.

Sudden apprehension dropped into Beckett's stomach like a cold stone.

"Keep an eye on the governor," he said.

"My lord?"

"Keep him away from the prison."

The soldier did not protest again. He rubbed a thick hand over his greasy face and ambled away, his feet plodding heavily on the painstakingly polished floor.

Beckett slouched against the railing, his hands knotted around the rough wood. It would be rather rotten luck if Mrs. Prior was caught throttling Elizabeth Swann, rotten, damnable luck.

* * *

Mrs. Prior was not one to complain. She didn't mind her position, nor the way Lord Beckett dictated to her like some lofty god of Olympus. Her life was a far cry from a musty cell at Newgate and she much preferred walking through the hazy streets of Port Royal to a grave at the crossroads. Expectations meant little to her as did advancement. She was content enough to put one foot in front of the other and wallow in Beckett's high-handed favor. 

The night was growing old when she finally came to the prison that was fast reaching decay and ruin. Ruts in the stone suggested a previous assault by cannon and Mrs. Prior ran her hand over the pock-marked walls. Sweaty dew stained her flesh, dampening her fingers and smudging the dirt on her palms. She wiped her hand on the hem of her coat and signaled to the sentry by the door. He wasn't one of the crimson coated marines the Navy kept, but a Company man.

"Ma'am." The sentry was quick enough to salute and recognition widened his pale eyes.

"It's a fine eve," Mrs. Prior replied. Her nostrils flared like a haughty connoisseur's. "Wretchedly hot though."

"It always is, ma'am. You'll become accustomed to it quick enough." The sentry rested his musket by the wall, the steel tip of the bayonet blinking angrily in the moonlight.

Mrs. Prior offered him a gentle smile. "His lordship's sent me. I'm to meet the governor's daughter. What's her name again?" she asked, feigning stupidity.

"Miss Elizabeth Swann, ma'am. We're keeping her in the very back of the jail, the last cell. Don't want the other ruffians to bother her."

"Why not?" Mrs. Prior raised a brow. The sentry had no answer.

"That's alright." She patted him on the shoulder and took the keys from his hand. "I can find her easily enough."

"Of course you can, ma'am." He stepped aside and opened the dark, wooden door. "And pass along my regards to Lord Beckett. I hope all goes well with him."

"Indeed." She ducked inside, struggling to ignore the immediate assault of the putrid stench. Her stomach churned, pushing bile up from her gut and into her throat. Mrs. Prior swallowed it down with a hard frown.

Well, no one had said her job was easy or overly pleasant.

She headed down the long corridor, the slick floor catching the cadence of her footsteps and bouncing them back off the walls. Torches wept flames and only added to the decidedly sinister air of the place. Prisoners hooted and howled as she passed by their cells and Mrs. Prior fought the urge to jeer right back at them. But she had work to do.

Lord Beckett was a strict employer in most ways, not one to loosen his tight grip on control, but Mrs. Prior found that he had become more lax of late. Perhaps it was the wretched Caribbean air that tainted his mind or perhaps he had simply learned to trust her. She certainly trusted him, having spent a few grateful years in his employ. The man had done much for her, offered her food and shelter and a good job that she was quite adept at. And if he treated her like a common whore sometimes, well, she didn't mind. Such a trifle was well worth it.

Mrs. Prior paused and reached inside her pocket, producing a pair of cracked, old gloves. They would help to mask both the scarlet hue darkening her nails and her intentions for a time. After all, she did not want to frighten poor Miss Swann.

Perhaps it had been wrong of her to suggest the disposal of the governor's young daughter, but the girl was too much of a bother, a useless distraction. Mrs. Prior liked to keep her master's path to triumph clear and clean, to make things pleasant and easy for him. He couldn't be troubled with minute details. Miss Swann had served her purpose. Her plight had sent the foolish Will Turner in search of the compass and now, she was of little use. And in the end, she was condemned to hang anyway. Why should Lord Beckett be bothered with all the pomp and procedure of a public execution?

A quiet cough, a distinctly feminine one, captured Mrs. Prior's attention. She glanced down the corridor to the last cell and saw the wretched girl, her hands wrapped around her arms, lace pooling about her wrists.

Mrs. Prior smiled. "Why Miss Swann, I do hope you aren't ill. My, you are quite pale. Has the guard not seen to your indisposition?"

Miss Swann looked up and her eyes breathed fire and hate and rebellion. They much reminded Mrs. Prior of her own lost youth and days that had been spent in careless abandon.

"You're Beckett's whore," the girl said and nodded her sharp chin. "I remember you, yes, I remember your face."

"Well, so I am." Mrs. Prior leaned her right shoulder on the cell door, the keys jingling coldly in her hand. "Would you mind if I let you out, miss? I should like us to go for a walk."

Miss Swann stared at her, still awash in her wedding finery. Her hair was undone though and she looked quite reduced, like a sleek cat that has gone to the dogs. "I suppose," she said at length and stood, nearing the cell bars.

"Splendid." Mrs. Prior battled the rusty lock for a moment, the door groaning as it finally swung open. Miss Swann rushed out into the corridor and her gold gown whispered along the stones. Mrs. Prior caught her arm and held her fast.

"I thought we might go outside into the yard," she said. "Do you find that agreeable, miss? There is a great big moon in the sky and oh, I think you should like to see it."

Miss Swann set her jaw, her eyes sharp with sudden suspicion. "What are you about?" she asked quickly, twisting her arm wildly. Mrs. Prior let her go.

"Oh miss," she said softly, "pardon my insult, please. I had not considered how unseemly it would be for the governor's daughter to be seen with a woman such as I. We might stay in the shadow of the prison, then, if you wouldn't mind."

Again, the girl glared at her, eyebrows pulled tensely together. "My reputation hardly matters anymore," she said stiffly, "your employer has certainly seen to that."

"I'm sorry about that, miss." And Mrs. Prior bowed her head, imitating the lowborn wench she was thought to be. "But wouldn't you at least like to stretch your legs a bit? I don't think I could countenance sitting in a cell for hours, oh no, it should drive me quite mad."

"My reason is intact, enough to know that Beckett sent you hear to interrogate me, to gain my trust."

A quick breeze made the torch flames whine and shadows splayed across the floor and over Mrs. Prior's boots. Her head snapped up and she looked Miss Swann carefully in the eye.

"That's a false thing," she said, "a false thing indeed and I have not been sent here for such. In fact, it's quite bold of you to assume that I have been _sent _here at all, miss, begging your pardon."

Miss Swann turned about, offering Mrs. Prior her back and what a mistake that was. Mrs. Prior's thin fingers twitched and at once she thought of finishing the matter then and there.

"Do I have a choice?" Miss Swann glanced over her shoulder.

"Yes, miss, of course you do," Mrs. Prior replied and her voice jumped a note higher. "You needn't walk out this night." She held open the cell door.

Miss Swann seemed to think quickly, her eyes darting down the corridor and back to the stale interior of the cell. She picked up her skirts and paced for a moment, the soft sound of swishing fabric mingling with the roar of the not so distance sea. Mrs. Prior stared at the rounded toes of her boots and pretended indifference. Her heart hummed loudly though and she wondered if Miss Swann could hear the thunderous beat. A paranoid sort of woman Mrs. Prior was, conjuring fancies quicker than truth and reason. After all, there seemed little reason left in the world anyway.

"Very well." Miss Swann drew herself up, her height not much greater than Mrs. Prior's. "We will go for a quick walk in the yard."

Mrs. Prior despised her haughtiness and hate rose against her teeth like tangy blood. She bit her lip.

"Of course, miss, of course." The cell door was shut and a shuffling step carried her down the hall. Miss Swann followed in due course, her stride more languid and practiced, the walk of a reduced lady clinging to abandoned protocol.

Mrs. Prior stifled a laugh behind one cracked glove. Yes, the girl was better off dead.


	3. Chapter Three

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter three of "Little Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **i.mpresaio**, **Rokhal** and **goody goody gumdrop 06**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Three**

Mrs. Prior came to the courtyard door and pulled it open, the iron handle straining against her grasp. At once, a wet wind rushed upon her face and chased away the stench. Behind her, Miss Swann blinked.

"Where are the sentries?"

"Miss?"

"The guards, where are they?"

Mrs. Prior shrugged and glanced around the empty courtyard. "I don't know, miss," she lied. "I haven't seen them for quite some time." In truth, the loitering and half-slumbering sentries had been ordered into the streets to look after wandering drunkards. No one would be around to hear the commotion-if there was one.

Miss Swann frowned and her face was hard, angry. She folded her arms over her chest. "What do you want?"

"To walk, miss. I don't like standing in one place for long, makes me restless."

Miss Swann sighed and took a hesitant step forward. Mrs. Prior joined her, falling in somewhere by her left side. "That's quite a lovely gown," she said and brushed the skirt with her fingertips. "Your seamstress certainly has a good eye."

Miss Swann touched her sleeve and pulled at a strand of pearls sewn into the silk. "It's gone to waste now."

"I shouldn't say that," Mrs. Prior said with a sympathetic smile. "As soon as that young Mr. Turner comes back with whatever it is my master wants, well, I am certain you shall put that gown to good use."

"Don't mock me with your rigmarole." Miss Swann shifted her hips. "Do you honestly believe your own words?"

Mrs. Prior shook her head with a girlish chuckle. "Oh miss, there is such a thing as hope, you know and it seems better to speak of fancy than to talk of despair. I should wager you could do with a laugh now, yes?"

Miss Swann said nothing for a time and Mrs. Prior followed her stately progress across the courtyard, scarping her boot heels on the black stones. They made a low, dark sound, one that reminded Mrs. Prior greatly of old, crushed bones. She paused and pulled anxiously at her gloves. There was some measure of timing in everything and of course, patience. Unfortunately, she possessed none of the latter.

When they had walked once about the square yard and passed by every grey wall and door, Miss Swann stopped and looked up at the moon.

"You were right, you know," she said and a sigh trailed after her tone, "it's beautiful."

"You see, miss." Mrs. Prior clapped her hands together. "A fancy is better than sorrow, any fancy."

"Hmm." Miss Swann made a low, derisive noise in the back of the throat. "What of my father? Have you learned anything of him?"

"Your father, miss?"

"Lord Beckett keeps you about his house, does he not?" Miss Swann crossed the courtyard, the back of her gown snatching up all manner of filth and mud. "It would stand to reason that you have heard something of my father."

Mrs. Prior stretched and put her hands to the small of her back. "I've seen him once or twice, but no more and I can't tell you much of his visits. I'm no more than a whore, as you said."

"I'm sorry for that," Miss Swann said and Mrs. Prior knew that she lied.

Silence fell over the courtyard, trapping them beneath the polluted haze that rose up from the waterfront. Smoke licked the sky and swept about the red clouds circling the moon. Mrs. Prior glanced up. It wouldn't be much longer now…

"Might I inquire as to your manner of dress?" Miss Swann asked suddenly.

"Oh." Mrs. Prior tugged awkwardly at the hem of her coat. Could the girl have noticed the bloodstains on her breeches? "Well, it's not a common thing," she said slowly, "but I like to walk the streets at night, what great sport it is! But a woman must take care, especially in the, hmm, less respectable parts of town. I've taken to disguising myself, for safety, of course."

Miss Swann raised her chin, the moonlight hitting her bronzed flesh and coloring it an eerie, corpse-like silver. "Very clever. I expect you frequent those particular neighborhoods often?"

The barb did not hurt half so much as it should have, but Mrs. Prior pretended to lick her wounds, turning her head to the side. She was no whore, no aimless woman that rambled down the streets in every piece of clothing she owned in search of a man to trade pleasure for drink. No, she had a purpose, a _much _higher purpose and position.

"Sometimes, miss," she said at length.

The girl shook her head. "I am surprised Lord Beckett would let you do such. He seems like a possessive man."

And for some inexplicable reason, Mrs. Prior felt her blood begin to simmer. "You know little of him, I should think," she said, her lips barely moving.

"What is your name?"

The question caught Mrs. Prior off-guard. She slipped further into the shadows, hugging the high courtyard wall with her body. "Mrs. Camilla Prior."

"Married?" A golden eyebrow arched.

"Widowed."

"Ah, indeed." Miss Swann turned and swept away, her skirts flapping along the wet cobblestones. "I wonder, why would Lord Beckett bring his whore to the Caribbean? Certainly he could find another suitable distraction here."

Mrs. Prior knotted her tingling fingers together and exhaled once through her long nose. "He needs me."

"Of course."

"I am of great use to him."

"In more ways than one, I'd wager."

Mrs. Prior felt her mask slipping, her careful disguise coming apart at the seams. She set her jaw, grinding her teeth together as Miss Swann sauntered about the courtyard like some devilish fairy.

"Where did your master send Will?" she asked suddenly, her tone tight, strangled.

Mrs. Prior felt a smile lift her lips. The girl was desperate after all.

"I don't know, miss," she said and took one slow step forward. Miss Swann still had her back to her. "I'm just a whore, after all."

"I suppose." A sigh shook Miss Swann's voice, a soul shaking thing that made even Mrs. Prior hesitate. Miss Swann turned around. "I should think we have little need to draw this out, Mrs. Prior, if that is your position. I had hoped that you would tell me something of use and I had hoped that you were just a wench. But I see now, I was so very wrong."

Mrs. Prior stopped and pressed her hands to her waist. The girl knew…she knew. Her skin prickled, revolting against fear and shock. Oh, how she hated it when they discovered her before the end. It ruined the surprise.

Miss Swann dashed for the door. "Help! Murder! Help!"

Mrs. Prior was after her in a flash, nimble fingers nesting in her hair and yanking her back. "Quiet!" she snarled. "Quiet now!"

Miss Swann was mad with fear or rage perhaps and she lashed out, feet, teeth and nails all battering her adversary.

But Mrs. Prior was quite practiced in the ways of struggle and the frightened failings that proceeded a merciless death. "That's enough," she said, her hands fitting over Miss Swann's neck as she forced her to the ground. "That's quite enough."

The girl gasped, choking, her lips opened wide and begging for air. Mrs. Prior applied more pressure, intent on wringing the very last of her wretched life from her.

Miss Swann's lips pulled back and her teeth slashed into the side of Mrs. Prior's hand, sinking deep into the flesh. Blood bloomed black against the night's shadows. And despite all her careful stoicism and strength, Mrs. Prior shrieked in agony.

* * *

The empty goblet, in which lingered only a droplet of port, fell from the railing and shattered as Beckett slammed into it. 

A scream. He had heard a scream, somewhere…far off…begging.

And he shuddered, surprised that Mrs. Prior had taken her work to such level. The woman was all for the quick kill, proceeded by hours of stalking maybe, but the last moments were always swift and silent. She only tortured her victims when he requested it and even then, it was with great distaste.

He had not asked her to interrogate Elizabeth Swann though…

Beckett suddenly felt dangerously ill and he swallowed, sweat sliding down his back. Of late, he possessed the notion that his control of Mrs. Prior was slipping and she was becoming more violent, unpredictable, a hazard to everything he stood for. He feared, oh he feared the night when her mind would snap beneath whatever insane burden she carried and he would be confronted with something more than just a little blood under her nails. It would then be his unpleasant duty to hang her, to play the role of the horrified owner who's dog has gone rabid without warning. Mrs. Prior could easily be sacrificed. Beckett's reputation could not.

He paced along the railing and watched the darkness, half-expecting her to emerge from the shadows with an all too wicked smile. The deed is done, she would say and expect to be patted and praised for her accomplishments. But the night had fallen deceptively still and a knot of worry tightened in Beckett's chest. What had the creature dared to do now?

Quick, heavy footsteps sounded behind him and Beckett whirled around, facing his darkened office with a calm countenance. The once slumbering sentry stepped out onto the balcony, now fully awake and drenched with a nervous sweat.

"My lord," he wheezed, struggling to salute.

Beckett noticed that his uniform was a good deal more filthy now, as though he had been crawling through the muddy backstreets.

The sentry leaned on his musket. "It's the governor, my lord."

"Well?" Beckett asked sharply and stepped forward. "Have you delayed him?"

"No, my lord." And fear entered the man's voice. He cowered, ducking into the shadows and away from the faint light produced by dusty lanterns hanging over the door. "Governor Swann left his house, my lord, in a carriage. He was driving himself."

"Where did he go?" Beckett demanded, one hand clenching tensely over the other.

"Couldn't rightly tell, my lord, but…but the prison, I think."

Beckett jerked back his arm and thought to strike the man straight across the face. But reason kept him still and he rolled his shoulders once, loosening his limbs.

"Why did you not follow him?"

"Oh, I did my lord." Earnest eyes shone from out of the soldier's grimy face. "For a good time, but I couldn't keep up, you see, so I thought I best come back and tell you. What orders, my lord?"

Beckett chewed his lip, forgoing anger and punishment for much needed time. "Take the rest of your company," he said curtly. "Swann is not to enter the prison."

"If he's already arrived, my lord?"

"Arrest him."

"The governor, my lord?"

"If he enters the prison, he's not to leave." Beckett turned around, running his toe over the bits of broken glass littering the wooden floorboards. "See to it. Now!"

"My lord," the soldier mumbled. He hurried off. Beckett heard the door open and close behind him.

The silence that now blanketed the night was sinister and he found himself listening for another sound, any sound. Perhaps Mrs. Prior had finished her work already or perhaps, oh, perhaps Miss Swann wasn't the one who screamed at all…

What a terrifying notion that was and where Beckett's skin had blushed with sweat, it now paled and prickled with an unearthly chill.

* * *

Elizabeth was dying, screaming a soundless shriek as her mouth opened and sought air. Mrs. Prior had loosened her hold for a moment and what a bittersweet moment it was. Elizabeth gasped and could have wept for her newfound freedom. But as she struggle to sit up, she found her limbs weak, her body wasted. Poisonous black dots darted before her eyes. She could not move… 

Mrs. Prior howled, screeching like a filthy gutter rat. Insane with agony, she waved about her hand and blood splashed along the stones with a faint hiss. Elizabeth felt the wetness on her cheek. Mrs. Prior reeled back and the moon silhouetted her writhing form.

"You bitch!" she snarled, the broken skin flapping soundlessly against her palm. "You bitch! I'll make you suffer now, yes, it would have been quick. No, no not now."

And she laughed shrilly. Terror dropped into Elizabeth's stomach and turned her insides cold. She struggled against her weakness, but Mrs. Prior grabbed the front of her gown and slammed her once against the ground.

Elizabeth watched the sky sway and fade above her, the stars seeming to melt and trickle away into nothingness.

Oh Will…oh dear Will…

Once more, hands were around her neck and the pressure that followed made her want to beg, to plead for mercy. But her voice had died, slipping deep inside her and burrowing beneath layers of pain. Her last sight of the world would be Mrs. Prior's enraged face and the sheer joy in her eyes as she throttled Elizabeth to death…

There were distant sounds in the courtyard, like thunder, like a thousand footsteps and a cry.

"Elizabeth! My God! No!"

And suddenly Mrs. Prior grunted, flying back into the air as an old walking stick smashed into her brow. She landed a foot away on the ground, looking like a sickly, haunted thing. Elizabeth could only see the faint outline of her ebony coat and the figure standing nearby.

"Father!" The word formed in her mind and her throat ached as she struggled to push it past her swollen lips. He hurried to her side, pulling her into his arms with a frightened sob.

"Elizabeth…oh Elizabeth…what's happened?" He glanced at Mrs. Prior's limp body.

Elizabeth clung to her father, tears staining her face and his old greatcoat. He smelled of pipe tobacco, with just a hint of hay that clung to his clothes. Her father always smelled like hay when he went to the stables and took walks by the paddocks when the night was too hot for sleeping…

"Beckett's whore," Elizabeth managed to respond. Her breathing had not yet evened and she clutched at her father's arm as he helped her to her feet. The world shrank into darkness and then expanded once more, coming into clear focus. She pressed a shaking hand to her throbbing throat.

"Not Beckett's whore," her father murmured. "Not that creature. She's his spy. An assassin as well. I know her. The wretch has threatened me with every evil. And it's all Beckett's doing…all his doing…" He trailed off and pulled his daughter back to the door. "Come, we must make haste."

"Where?" Elizabeth allowed herself to be led away, her feet dragging along the muddy ground. Her father hoisted her up.

"I have a carriage waiting and a ship in the harbor. You will go to England, at once. I had feared Beckett wouldn't wait for Turner to return before he sent you to the gallows, but oh, I did not expect this."

"Wait." Elizabeth released her father's arm and leaned against the door frame. The prison was silent, the long corridor cutting through the building like a fiery river. Elizabeth shut her eyes for a moment and when she opened them at last, she felt nearly recovered…despite the terrible shaking in her legs. "What of Will?"

"We cannot wait." Her father placed a gentle hand under her elbow and jerked her forward. "Come, we must hurry."

"But…" Elizabeth did not have the strength to struggle against him. And before he shut the courtyard door behind them, she glanced once more outside into the dark.

Mrs. Prior was gone.

* * *

An old coach stood waiting just outside the prison and Elizabeth was bundled into it before she could protest. Her father hopped onto the driver's seat himself and whipped up the horses at once. Soon, they were rumbling through the bleak town. 

Elizabeth pressed her head back against the cushioned seat and tried to remember the last time she had slept in a bed. The gentle rocking of the coach threatened to lull her into a dark slumber, but she fought treacherous sleep, concentrating instead on the dull pain ringing her neck and shoulders.

She could not leave Will this way. He had to be helped, but how?

Lord Beckett possessed the Letters of Marque and only they could assure a pardon for both her and her fiancé. Elizabeth clutched the ruined skirt of her gown, the pearls tinkling faintly against her arm as she moved. Something must be done, something…anything…

She shifted uselessly in her seat and her toe brushed a cold piece of metal, nestled on the floor on the far side of the carriage. Elizabeth leaned forward and retrieved a pistol wrapped in a handkerchief. Powder and balls had been set beside it and no doubt her father had intended to use the weapon to defend her to the very last.

Remembering her careful lessons from Will…and James Norrington, she loaded the pistol quickly and slipped the remaining ammunition into her silken pocket. The coach began to slow as it headed uphill. Elizabeth took a deep breath, her neck muscles contracting and aching.

With a prayer on her lips, she threw open the coach door and fell out into the street. She was on her feet once more in a flash and dashing through a slimy alley where rats squealed in the gutters. And even her father's desperate cries that seeped into the humid night air did not slow her step.


	4. Chapter Four

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter four of "Little Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **Rokhal**, **cazonetta**, **PearlSparrow13**, **Scarlet Snidget **and **miragecat123**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Four**

When standing vigil on the balcony had quite lost it's luster and eerie anticipation, Beckett resumed his pacing. There was dead silence once more and he had high hopes that Mrs. Prior had completed her duties. Perhaps she was heading back to him now. Perhaps the soldiers had successfully delayed Governor Swann. And perhaps, Elizabeth Swann's body was lying in the prison courtyard, a fair necklace of black bruises ringing her throat.

Beckett could see her there, smell the drying layer of sweat that evaporated on her quickly cooling body. Beautiful eyes, fierce eyes, lifeless eyes opened to the cloud laden heavens. It seemed a terrible shame, a terrible, wretched shame that such a fine body, such a fine creature would go to waste and rot. Suddenly, Beckett felt all the more repulsed by Mrs. Prior. He imagined her standing there in the shadows with a wicked leer and ill intent framing her girlish, haunted face.

Beckett stopped pacing, wishing almost that he had left Mrs. Prior where he had found her, in the putrid slums of London, awash in filth and the jubilation of her latest kill. Yes, he would have left her there…had he not needed her so.

He cleared his throat and scratched the base of his neck where old powder coated his skin. A certain feeling of unseemliness stole over him and he wanted nothing more than a bath. Ah, a good bath with cool water to wash away dried sweat and dust and the seemingly everlasting imprint of the passionless Mrs. Prior.

Beckett turned from the balcony just in time to hear his office door click open. Ah, she had returned at last. Stooping down, he snatched up a lantern left behind by the sentry and moved inside.

A pale beam of light stretched along the floor before him and he could see little, the chamber being swathed in deep shadows that beckoned him with sinister promises.

"Mrs. Prior?" he called, passing the pair of torches that flanked the balcony door. "Have you come crawling back before the dawn? She must not have put up much of a fight, though I shall admit, that great commotion worried me. Did you hear the screaming?"

Beckett paused by his desk, the light of the lantern parting the closest shadows. Mrs. Prior had not come forward and even though Beckett knew she shunned his immediate presence like a shy maiden, she was always quick to answer him.

"Camilla?" he asked the darkness, his voice a good deal huskier.

She did not reply.

Sudden understanding quickened Beckett's heartbeat. He set the lantern on the edge of his desk and turned around. So, for the very first time, Mrs. Prior had neglected her duties.

"I underestimated you," he told the shadowy figure he had spotted just inside the door. "Apparently, you _did _put up quite a struggle. Tell me, did you hurt dear Mrs. Prior much?"

"Not nearly enough." Elizabeth Swann purred.

Beckett inhaled sharply, surprised by the way her voice crept over him. "Now Miss Swann," he said in a reproving tone, "it's not safe for young ladies to be abroad at such an hour. Terribly unseemly, it is, terribly, terribly unseemly."

"Yes, well, it was your whore that invited me out." And suddenly, she sauntered out of the shadows, a creature of elegance, of exquisite form, of a feral mind.

Her opulent dress, despite it's noticeable rips and tears, matched the refined setting of his office. Elizabeth seemed to waltz over the floor, her hips shifting to a minuet. Beckett watched her move with a slight smile.

"Well, if you had a message for me, you ought to have told Mrs. Prior," he said, his eyes gliding over the perfect skin that stretched over her long neck, over her sculpted, high cheekbones. "She is a most dependable courier, you know."

"Ah, is that why you hired her then?"

Oh, he was enjoying this little game and more so, her quick and sure retorts. No silent spirit was this woman, no. She had some wit about her and she did not fear to meet his eyes. In fact, there wasn't a bit of fear about her at all.

How very interesting.

"Mrs. Prior is quite singular in her abilities," he said, arching a defiant brow. "Perhaps I should summon her now?"

And he made to step forward, but she caught his bluff, one hand shooting up to reveal a pistol. Beckett smiled, not slowing his step until he stood directly before her, the barrel a dangerous inch from his cravat. She wouldn't dare hurt him now, not when she was enjoying the game as much as he.

Elizabeth smiled, raising her other arm and clutching a familiar leather case to her chest. With a long finger, she tapped on the Letters of Marque

Beckett chuckled. "Clever girl."

* * *

Governor Swann stumbled through the slums, his boots wading through a good inch of filthy water that ran unceasingly in the gutters. The stench was overwhelming and he fought the urge to press a perfumed handkerchief to his nose. But this was no philanthropic tour of poor hovels, no charitable visit to pass coins into needy hands. For the very first time in his life, Swann felt the horrible sort of desperation that was often etched on the faces of those dwelling in the little rat holes by the waterfront. He wasn't begging for a crumb of bread though or a musty, soiled blanket to cover a rotting straw pallet. No, he needed to find his daughter, his precious child who had vanished into the unseemly underbelly of Port Royal. 

"Elizabeth!" He did not dare raise his voice above a whisper, did not dare call for her like the jubilant, proud father he always was.

The shadows were thicker here, he decided, his chest aching, heaving as he rounded yet another muddy corner. Soot hung in the air, stuck to the face and flesh and made one ill. Swann slowed his step, one hand braced against a slick wall as he gasped and choked.

Why had she left the coach? Why had she cast herself from his protective embrace into certain peril?

And he knew then. No longer was he the only man in her heart, the only worthy man who she might risk life and limb for. Swann felt much like cursing that Turner fellow, wherever he was, but even now, he maintained his respect for Elizabeth. It was her choice, after all….

Pulling himself upright, Swann trotted slowly into a small square. Sickly, dull light poured forth from a single lantern hanging outside a latched door. A woman was sitting on the ground and when she stood, Swann realized that she was not the beggar he thought her to be.

"Have a go, sir?" she said in a high voice, one hand lazily pulling at her bodice.

Swann swallowed, repulsed by her greasy skin and shrunken face. "No," he panted. "Have…have you by chance seen-"

But then he saw the woman's eyes widen, her tiny mouth falling open and he knew.

Mrs. Prior was upon him at once, knocking him to the ground with great force, with a violence that certainly heralded death. Swann fell, groaning as his hip slammed into the stones. Mud stuck to the side of his face. The whore was screaming.

"Mur-"

But then there was a thud and she too fell silent. Mrs. Prior rolled him over at once and knelt on his chest. A tiny dagger, one not longer than the length of his hand, grazed his throat. But oh, the blade was sharp…

"Did you kill her?" Swann gasped, his eyes rolling back, searching for the whore.

"No." Mrs. Prior smiled and Swann was terrified of her ghastly face. Yellow it was in the lantern light, with green shadows under her round eyes. She had the look of a child about her, an innocent child with leering lips. "I've already killed once tonight, ha ha!" she laughed.

Swann inhaled sharply. Elizabeth…

"Your friend, that captain," Mrs. Prior continued. "You'll have to find another way to England."

Captain Hawkins. Swann felt smothered. Mrs. Prior, a surprisingly strong creature, put more pressure on his chest, one bitten and bleeding hand braced against his shoulder.

"Where's the girl?"

Swann raised his eyes to her, hope striking his heart. Elizabeth might yet be safe.

"I've taken her back to our home."

The dagger came closer. "You lie. Where's the girl?"

Swann did not reply. Mrs. Prior growled, leaning forward until her full weight was on his chest. With her free hand, she lifted one of his and nicked the very tip of a finger off with her knife. Swann shut his eyes but did not give her the satisfaction of moaning. She slapped him once across the face.

"Where is the girl?"

He could hear the frustration rising in her voice, a tempest straining and growing amidst fathomless rage. Oh, it made him laugh.

Mrs. Prior shrieked with rage and reached for his hand again. Footsteps pounded along through the gutters.

"Ma'am! We've come from his lordship, ma'am."

Swann dared to open his eyes and saw a dozen or so soldiers standing the square. Mrs. Prior stared at them.

"Who's guarding Beckett's office?"

Silence and Swann enjoyed it. Her panic was mounting. He could feel it as she shifted on top of him.

"Was no one left behind?"

A long pause followed, then…

"I don't know, ma'am."

"God damn you all to hell!" She bounded to her feet and off his chest. Swann gasped and sucked in air, not minding the sooty flavor of it. But then Mrs. Prior kicked him once for good measure and he buckled, clutching his bruised gut.

"Take him away to the prison."

"But ma'am!"

Mrs. Prior did not answer. The night had swallowed her once more and as Swann was roughly hoisted for his feet, he prayed that she would not add another murder to her night's work.

* * *

Elizabeth did not like the look in his eyes. Nor the way he smiled so calmly at her. Did Lord Beckett know no fear or was he simply a master of deception and disguise? Could his heart possibly be pounding against his breast? Did sweat moisten his palms? 

She doubted it and her confidence was dented, slipping slowly away into a churning pit somewhere deep in her stomach.

"These Letters of Marque," Elizabeth said quickly, keeping the pistol steady despite the tremor that rushed down her arm, "they are signed by the King?"

Lord Beckett's little mouth twisted in what was, in Elizabeth's mind, a dangerous smile. The dull light wrapped about his small, but powerful frame and his shadow grew, stretching over the floor like a living creature.

The man exuded power and great self-possession that was surely a gift from the devil himself.

But Elizabeth held her ground.

Beckett nodded at the leather case clutched against her chest, his eyes roaming carefully over every inch of her. "Both my signature and seal are required." He paused and crossed his arms tightly over his middle. "Only _I _have the power to validate them." There was arrogance in his voice, pride. Elizabeth's chin quivered. Even with a pistol to his head, the man was relishing in his authority.

A torturous chill ran through her, coursing through her veins like icy blood. She took a deep breath. "Or else I still would not be here-"

"Wasting your time?" Beckett supplied. He moved away, unblinking eyes still focused on the pistol. Elizabeth followed his progress about the room. Her finger closed tighter on the trigger.

"It is the compass you are after, is it not?"

"Indeed." His footsteps were muted as he passed over a patch of elegant carpet.

"Then it will do you no good." Elizabeth felt the glow of promised triumph fill her. She walked alongside Beckett, just as she had cautiously tread across the courtyard with Mrs. Prior. The mood was much the same as before, but Lord Beckett was composed and did not have the maniacal glint of the murderess.

"Explain." Beckett was back by his desk now, leaning upon it like some languid cat.

Elizabeth dared to step closer, her nostril's dilating as she detected the light perfume he wore. It was a soft scent, quiet, one that infected the mind slowly. She suddenly fought the urge to shut her eyes and turn away, but he held her gaze so vigilantly in his own.

"I have been to Isla de Muerta, I have seen the treasure myself. There is something you need to know." Elizabeth felt as though her very insides shuddered as she spoke. But then anger swept through her, reminding her of Will and where he might be now. It was Beckett's fault and his fault entirely. And suddenly Elizabeth felt much like weeping. She could have been married now…

Her finger twitched on the trigger, temptation boiling within her. Elizabeth did not want to kill Lord Beckett, no, but she wanted to _hurt _him, transfer some measure of her own heartsickness into physical pain.

Beckett's lips parted and he laughed lowly, eyes turning towards the partially completed map on the far wall.

"Ah, I see. You think the Compass leads only to the Isla de Muerta, and so you hope to save me from an evil fate." Beckett let his head roll to the side, his tongue flicking over his lips. "But you mustn't worry. I care not for cursed Aztec gold. My desires are not so provincial. There's more than one chest of value in these waters." The smile stretched his small mouth open. "So perhaps you may wish to enhance your offer."

And just as Elizabeth had felt the invigorating pulse of rage, so now did she feel unbridled defeat. She stared at Beckett, wishing her eyes could burn and melt his flesh straight through to the bone. Instead, she cocked the pistol and pushed the letters into his hand.

"Would you be so kind?" A golden eyebrow jumped heavenward.

For the first time, Beckett showed a hint of remorse and sighed. He opened the leather case, turned to his desk and reached for a quill pen.

"Murder!" A long, drawn-out wail stabbed the night. "Murder!"

Elizabeth jumped, as did Beckett and spun around, fearing that the shadows had come to life and would throttle her as Mrs. Prior had intended to.

To her horror, the door flew open, slamming against the wall with a bone-crushing bang. Elizabeth raised her pistol, only to feel it wrenched from her grasp as wry arms extended out of the darkness. She yelped and was thrown upon the floor like an old, discarded rag. A high cackle reached over the screams in the streets.

"Aren't you glad I came, my lord?" Mrs. Prior trilled. "Ha ha! Ha ha! Poor little whore. Poor little wretch. I shall make quick work of her, my lord, if you like. Yes, let me finish it now. Let me…let me…"

"That's enough, Camilla." Beckett' voice punctured Mrs. Prior's delighted rambling. His tone was soothing and Elizabeth much suspected that he meant to calm the half-crazed woman.

"But, my lord!"

Elizabeth shook herself once, tearing her thought's away from their conversation as her shock lessened. She would not lay prostrate on the floor, demurely awaiting the arrival of a bullet in her brain. At once, she made to rise and at once, she was pushed back down by a hard hand.

"See how she struggles, ha ha! Let me finish her now, my lord. Let me-"

"Enough." Silence followed, silence tested but Mrs. Prior's annoyed grunt. Through the dark, Elizabeth saw the pistol change hands and felt a unexpected surge of relief.

"You've done enough, my pet," Beckett said. "Leave her be."

Mrs. Prior mewed and pouted in disappointment.

* * *

The usage of "ha ha" is a reference to it's distinct and frequent use in some taunting letters written to the police and newspapers, attributed to another serial killer-Jack the Ripper.


	5. Chapter Five

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter five of "Little Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta** and **Olivegreeneyes**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!Mild sexuality towards the end of this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Five**

Lord Beckett leaned forward, his fingers draped over the ornate arm of his chair. "I am most displeased."

Mrs. Prior much looked like she had been slapped and she cradled her hand to her breast, her shoulders swinging slightly as if she rocked a babe to sleep.

"Screams in the streets? The Royal Governor running through the slums? I am most displeased." Beckett spat out the last word, throwing himself back in the chair with a frown.

The day was dawning gray, hopeless and light was scarce. Still, night shadows seemed to gather, to congregate in the corners of his office, lurking like thieves and whispering plots that rose high on the wind. Rain pattered on the balcony.

Mrs. Prior kept her eyes bent on her boots and Beckett found he had great difficulty concealing his annoyance. The woman was a mess, a putrid, filthy mess. Sometime during the night, her black hair had come undone and now hung, matted and slick with sweat, about her bowed shoulders. Mud or something like it, reached all the way up to her thighs, dried into a fine crust that left the original color of her breeches questionable. And her face, oh, it was stricken pale, the blood having fled her cheeks. Her lips were fairly blue.

What a harsh contrast to Elizabeth Swann.

Mrs. Prior uncovered her hand at last and held it aloft for his inspection. "She bit me, my lord."

Beckett grimaced as he caught sight of the angry wound that blared a too dark red. He flicked an annoyed finger in her direction and she quickly tucked her hand inside her coat.

"Should I have all the teeth pulled from her head then?"

Mrs. Prior's gaze snapped up, her eyes suddenly wide. "Would you do such a thing, my lord?" she said with hushed reverence.

"No." And Beckett's grimace deepened. He had a problem and quite a thorny problem at that. Mrs. Prior, while never thoroughly sane to begin with, seemed to have slipped further into madness. And madness simply would not do.

He stood and Mrs. Prior, as always, took a step back, shying from him. Well, at the very least, her sense of fear was still intact. Good.

"Camilla," he said softly and she flinched at her name, "do you know why I am displeased?"

"You just said so, my lord."

Beckett slammed his hand upon his desk. She jumped.

"No riddles today," he said, "I want answers."

Mrs. Prior gnawed at her lower lip. "I tried to do as you asked, my lord."

"No excuses, either."

"It's as I said then." Mrs. Prior tried to look out the window at the streaming rain and Beckett noticed her furtive movements. She would do anything to avoid his eyes. "The girl…"

"Elizabeth Swann?"

Mrs. Prior nodded, gulping pitifully. "She bit me, my lord, as I tried to throttle her. I lost my bearings, I'm afraid. And I was just about to finish her, I was, when the governor came along. He knocked me over the head and when I woke, I heard them leaving, going down to the waterfront."

Beckett shifted his weight, tweaking a quill pen with his thumb. "And you did not follow them?"

"Oh, I did, my lord!" Her eyes were shining with earnest tears. "I did, though it was a trial to do so." She looked at her hand once more. "There was much blood and I could scarce see but for the pain."

"I know." His frustration was growing and he struggled to swallow it away. Answers must be coaxed from Mrs. Prior and some sense of reason. "What happened then? The sentry reports that he found you with Swann."

"Yes, my lord, I caught up to him. Wretch wouldn't say a word, though, I only guessed that his daughter would come here." And she looked around the office with unabashed respect. "A good thing I came, yes?'

Mrs. Prior was pleading for praise, this he knew. With a cruel little smile, Beckett decided to withhold his commendations. She would have to wait…if she received them at all.

"And now I have the governor stowed away in a cell and his daughter held captive just down the hall." Thunder crowed brashly in the heavens . "What say you of that?"

Mrs. Prior shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling quickly. "Well, I said from the first that you should kill that Swann girl."

"That you did, but I realize the mistake of it now." Beckett sighed sharply and lowered himself back into his chair. Lightening rent the sky, a sharp, jagged spike that stretched far down into the churning sea. Beckett watched the ocean for a time and the foam that frothed and boiled vengefully along the waves. Mrs. Prior said nothing and allowed him his silence, though he did hear her shift her feet more than once and hiss as she inspected her hand. Beckett rubbed his chin, feeling suddenly dismal, as if the very weather governed his mood.

Both daughter and father were locked away at his command. Charges would have to be construed and explanations offered to the public who would certainly question the arrest of the Royal Governor. The entire situation had evolved into a decidedly distracting affair, one that would cost him much useless time and effort. From out of the corner of his eye, Beckett caught sight of Mrs. Prior, her face pallid except from the crimson streaking her eyes. It had all been _her_ fault. _She _had failed.

"Come." He beckoned her, raising a languid hand and calling her closer. Mrs. Prior looked unsure, her lips parting for a moment as she stepped forward and began to undo her clothes.

"No." Beckett was quick to correct her. Instead, he patted his knee and pulled her onto his lap. Mrs. Prior tensed, her good hand clenching the hem of her jacket. Beckett's nostrils dilated. She smiled of dried sweat and blood.

"I think it is time, Camilla, that you were reminded of exactly why I hired you." He wrapped one arm about her waist, the other resting easily across her thighs. "Do you remember London, Camilla?"

She exhaled shakily and shut her eyes. "I do, my lord."

"There were two murders in London. _Two_. Do you remember your husband? Do you remember Lord Darby's son?"

"I do, my lord."

Beckett smiled, relishing in her sudden subservience, the way she sat so still and petrified. Only he had the power, the self-possession to instill such terror.

"You know, I am of the mind that only the latter deserved what you did to him, but they were both murders, nonetheless."

"They were, my lord."

"Now far be it from me to cast the first stone, but-"

"Pardon me, my lord, but you are mistaken."

Now it was Beckett's turn to tense. Mrs. Prior was not one to contradict him. No, he couldn't recall a single occurrence when she had dared to correct him or even protest her disagreement.

"My lord," she continued quietly, her tone the epitome of respect, "there were _three _murders in London. Did you forget, my lord?"

Beckett bowed his head, his brow resting on her shoulder. The coarse cloth of her coat scratched his skin. So, she thought to speak of _that _now. It made sense, of course. For a seemingly indifferent murderess, Mrs. Prior certainly allowed herself a good measure of guilt.

"No, I didn't forget, my pet. But remember, did I not ask you never to speak of it?"

"And I won't, my lord. I won't." Thunder sounded again, a soft rumble that matched Beckett's steadily increasing heartbeat. "I just thought it was worth mentioning, is all."

"Hmm." Beckett lifted her up from his lap like a pet kitten and let her stumble to her feet. "We have much to discuss yet, but for God's sake, clean yourself up a bit first. Your appearance is most distracting and unsuitable for my household."

"Oh, of course, my lord," she said. Beckett thought he detected a hint of relief in her voice. She shuffled to the door, pausing only once to glance over her shoulder.

"That Elizabeth Swann, my lord, I might-"

"No, leave her be or it will be my most unpleasant duty to send you to the gallows."

Mrs. Prior nodded compulsively, her head bobbing on her shoulders as though she had little control over her own body, which Beckett knew was true in a sordid way. She left without further fuss, her footsteps falling to a whisper and soon becoming enveloped by the groan of thunder and the unceasing hiss of rain being battered about by the wind. Somewhere down the hall, Elizabeth Swann was confined to her small but comfortable chamber and Beckett found her fair form a much more agreeable source for meditation than Mrs. Prior and her murders.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Mrs. Prior sat by the sideboard in the kitchen and held her hand out for Polly's ministrations. 

"Keep the stitches small," she ordered in a steely voice, "and close together."

The young maid stared at her for a moment, her plump tongue between her teeth. She was struggling with the needle and thread, muttering every now and then as she failed to push the string through the small eye. The kitchen was otherwise quiet, save for pot that boiled water on the hearth. The back door had been left open and rain fell upon the cool stone floor. Mrs. Prior enjoyed the refreshing feel of it on her sweaty face. She had just washed and her wet hair pooled about her neck. A candle sputtered weakly next to Polly's elbow. Mrs. Prior looked away.

"Oh, I'm…I'm sorry, madam," the girl whispered. She held up a shaking hand, the thread dangling from her fingers. "I can't-"

"Give it here," Mrs. Prior growled. She took the needle in her good hand and threaded it in an instant.

"You have some talent for it, madam," Polly said as she considered the best way to stitch up the gaping wound.

Mrs. Prior arched a black brow. "I ought to. Now start here." She pointed to a small section of split skin.

"If you say so, madam." Polly sighed and her face had the hue of sour milk. Mrs. Prior looked away as the needle pierced her flesh and dragged the thread through. The candle wept wax onto the sideboard.

Compressing the pain into a tight ball of nothingness, Mrs. Prior shoved it away and tried to think on Lord Beckett instead.

Oh, he had been angry with her. Why? She had only tried to do exactly as he had asked. And why oh why did he now spare the Swann girl? Mrs. Prior did not much care for her. No, she should be dead.

Polly paused in her stitching and took a deep breath, her eyes shut.

"God damn you, girl!" Mrs. Prior snapped. "Keep at it."

"Yes, madam." The wound was half closed.

Would Lord Beckett punish her? The thought leapt into Mrs. Prior's mind before she could stop it and fear groped at her indifference. Of course, her master had threatened retribution before, but never had he gone through with it. In the end, he would always call her to him and attempt blot out her indiscretions in his bed.

Perhaps, she thought, just perhaps he intended that to be her punishment.

If so, then she met it with dignity and diffidence. Was that not what he wished?

Polly pulled the thread taut and Mrs. Prior swallowed, hard. The flame on the candle burned low, deceptively low. She could almost feel it's heat…

It was Hell's fire that drove her from the house, the flames that burned but did not seem to mar. Out into the street they ran, screaming, John weeping upon the cobblestones.

The candle, she had forgotten it…

"Put it out," Mrs. Prior said. Polly looked up at her and then at the candle.

"But I need that, madam, can't see otherwise."

"Put it out, now." Mrs. Prior rose, jerking the needle and thread out of Polly's hand. The girl's blue eyes were wide and her little lips parted.

"Madam-"

Mrs. Prior snatched up the candlestick and hurled it out the door, into the rain. Faintly, she heard the brass strike stone and roll away. Polly whimpered and fell back into her chair. Mrs. Prior inspected her handy work, quickly knotting the thread and snapping it with one sharp tug from her hand.

"You did well," she said softly, impressed. "You'd make a fair seamstress."

The skin about the wound was swollen and painful to the touch. Suddenly, she felt ill. The cool, storm sent breezes turned to desert winds and she licked her dry lips. She needed to see the surgeon. Perhaps Lord Beckett would be gracious and grant her permission?

Mrs. Prior bound her hand with a length of linen and left the kitchen-along with a dumbstruck Polly-behind. She crossed the rain kissed yard and entered the house through the back door. There was silence about the place and Mrs. Prior dragged herself aimlessly up the stairs, pausing only when she stood outside Elizabeth Swann's door.

She could do it quickly, silently, no one would know….

Another door opened and an arm extended, pulling her within a humid room. Lord Beckett stood before her, dressed in naught but his shirtsleeves.

"I have need of you," he said. Mrs. Prior did not reply.

* * *

When they had finished, Mrs. Prior crawled away to the very edge of the bed and drew her knees up to her chest. Beckett watched her as she sat there, more of a frightened creature than a woman. He sighed and settled onto his pillow. Mrs. Prior observed his comfort almost enviously. Her great, staring eyes caught the firelight and frightened him. He cleared his throat and jabbed at her with his toe. 

"Problem?"

"No. I am only weary, my lord."

"Then sleep."

"I can't."

"For the very last time, Camilla, you are safe within the confines of this chamber. No one will-"

"It's not that."

He frowned, his patience slipping away in slow drips and drabs. "What then?"

She did not speak for a long time, but pressed her chin to her knees and curled into a small ball. "My hand aches."

"Is that all? Why, I mistook you for quite a stronger woman than that."

"I wasn't speaking of the pain, but her," and there was dangerous disdain in her voice. "She needn't have hurt me."

"Well, to be fair, you were trying to kill her."

Mrs. Prior looked as close to offended as he had ever seen her, as though she expected her prey to lie still and calm while she went to work. Suddenly, Beckett felt uncomfortable lying where he was and he forced himself upright. Mrs. Prior stared at his chest for a moment and then-to his utter amazement-looked into his face. Beckett felt more than a little self conscious and he absentmindedly tucked back a strand of curling brown hair behind his ear. But the moment passed quickly and Mrs. Prior went back to contemplating her bandaged hand.

"My lord, I have a favor to ask."

"What is it?" Beckett resumed the role of authoritarian once more and sternly, he dipped his chin down and glared at her.

"Might I call the surgeon, my lord? He would give me laudanum, I am sure of it."

"No." Beckett said quickly. "And I don't want you drinking laudanum in the first place. It's a vile habit."

"But, my lord, the pain!"

"If it's pain that you are frightened of," he said, reaching forward and snatching her closer, "then I suggest you learn quickly." Beckett inhaled. The woman smelled sweet now, as those of the fair sex ought to. He kissed her hair. She whimpered very softly then and Beckett caressed her pale face, her soft, round cheeks blushing as his fingers glided over them.

"Why, Camilla, I believe Elizabeth Swann has gotten the better of you."

"No." But Camilla's voice shook. "She has done no such thing."

"On the contrary." Beckett's fingers left her face and moved down her throat, down her neck to her shoulder, to her breasts. "To think, you are terrified of a mere slip of a girl. Ha!"

Mrs. Prior seemed to consider for a moment and slowly, she put her arms around his neck. "What do you intend to do with her, my lord?"

Beckett hesitated. He had had much time to think over the past few hours and while his ruminations seemed only to lead him in circles, he had come to a satisfying conclusion.

"Why keep her, of course, my pet," he said and shifted on the bed. The weight of Mrs. Prior's arms about him was somehow eerie. "I think you were wrong. She may yet be of great use to me."

Mrs. Prior shuddered and fell against him. Beckett was shocked and for a moment he drew away. Could this be the hidden passion he always suspected dwelt within her? But then he found that she was weeping, wretchedly so. He sighed tersely.

"My lord, I beg you, the surgeon."

"Stop."

"Just let me see him. It is the only thing I would ask of you. You may forgo my usual payment this week, if you think that is fair."

"Camilla, stop." He fought the temptation to strike her across the face. Instead, he shook her until her teeth nearly rattled. "Now let us have no more talk of surgeons."

"Yes, my lord," she agreed, but still, her eyes trailed to her hand

"The night is young yet," Beckett mused more to himself than her. The curtains had not been drawn over the windows and he discerned the full moon sailing high in the heavens. "Come now."

Camilla knew those words well and with a resigned sigh, she settled herself onto his lap. Beckett kissed her cheek and then her lips. She gave him a dour, bleak look, but did not protest.

"No more talk of surgeons," he whispered in her ear. She winced when he pressed her against the bed, snatching her hand away when he tried to kiss it. Becket surveyed her carefully in the firelight and was disappointed with the woman he saw beneath him. Her face, though considerably comely, had a vacant look about it, as though the mind were absent and only the body remained.

"Camilla," he tired to speak softly, hoping for a smile, a frown, any display of emotion. But she looked at him with indifference, her mouth set in a firm line that did not twitch. And when he had done and fallen sated into her arms, Beckett felt the usual pang of disappointment. She did not move or speak, except to ask if she might now be permitted to sleep. Her fear seemed to have worn off considerably and the pain had made her drowsy. Beckett grunted in reply and tossed her over to the side of the bed, where she gave a soft sigh that could be mistaken for pleasure, but he knew was exhaustion and fell promptly asleep. Beckett remained awake from some time, drumming his fingers tensely on his stomach. When at last he did close his eyes, he found he could only think of the beauty that slept a few doors down or rather, paced in her room like a frantic animal. He smiled as he drifted to sleep.


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter six of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta **and **Olivegreeneyes**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Six**

There was a single flower in the small vase on the nightstand. A white rose it was and Elizabeth was quite sure that it had been placed in her chamber, her prison to mock her. Such a thing spoke of purity, of beauty, of careless afternoons wiled away in gardens. And as she stared at each perfect petal, Elizabeth only thirsted for freedom more.

Lord Beckett was certainly having himself a grand laugh now.

Her cell was elegant enough, proper furnishings and a dark green carpet to cushion her footfalls. Elizabeth did not want him to hear her pace, so she tiptoed about the chamber for hours, the tattered silk of her wedding gown slithering across the floor.

Strange, she thought on the seventh day of her imprisonment, Lord Beckett had provided her with every comfort, food, a basin and water for washing, even a book brought by a sly looking sentry. But he had not given her a change of clothes and Elizabeth suspected that this was only another tangent of his mockery. Unfortunately, she had not seen Lord Beckett face-to-face and was forced to keep her retorts locked away for some future, golden moment of revenge.

A nameless maid came to her chamber twice a day accompanied by two guards. And while not initially hungry, Elizabeth had learned to accept the food that was given to her. Her meals were common mostly, a few steps above the slop pushed through her cell in the prison. But still, she dined on the leftovers of servants and gnawing on almost bare chicken bones made her hunger for something decidedly more sustaining.

On the optimistic side of things, she had a fair amount of time to debate over her next course of action. Plans were birthed and then discarded. She allowed herself only a little space to fret over Will and her father. That was what Lord Beckett wanted, or so she was convinced. He wished for her to be distracted, to not notice things.

But Elizabeth had become quite good at being a spectator. Her chamber had no window, but from the calls and cries she heard in the courtyard, she had learned to detect when the guards where changed and when Lord Beckett went out in his coach. And often she heard footsteps in the corridor. Sometimes Company officers passed by, laughing and chattering. Other times she heard servants or soldiers. And on rare occasions, she listened to the careful sound of a single pair of boots coming up the stairs and turning down the hall. It was Lord Beckett or so she imagined and he seemed to pause outside her door, hesitate, before passing by.

A hitherto unknown thrill ravaged Elizabeth every time she heard his tread and increasingly, she tried to ignore him.

With the passing of a week, she felt frustrated, no longer hopeful and her abandoned plans for escape lay scattered about her mind. She threw herself on her bed and shut her eyes, trying to imagine the afternoon sun on the waves. Perhaps Will had already found the compass, perhaps the next set of boots on the stairs would be his….

Elizabeth jumped. There was indeed someone in the hall and the step was different, a mere whisper. She rose and tilted her head to the side, listening. A knock made the door rattle on its hinges.

"Come in," she said, for it seemed foolish to protest.

Mrs. Prior stepped into the room and locked the door behind her. Elizabeth tensed, her nerves on fire. The heat spread through her body, coiling her muscles and her legs loosened, ready to spring. She tried to remember what Will had taught her about weaponless combat, falling into a moment of sheer panic when she realized that Mrs. Prior had bested her in the prison courtyard…easily. Elizabeth put her back to the bed and groped for the small vase with the single flower on the nightstand. She only had one shot.

Mrs. Prior smiled, a tight movement that pulled at her lips and stole away some of her girlishness. She was dressed in a black petticoat and short gown today. At her collar and cuffs, Elizabeth noticed the edge of a plain, but clean white shift. Mrs. Prior had pushed all of her hair beneath a black bonnet and tied it neatly beneath her chin. She lifted the corners of her petticoat and curtsied.

"Good afternoon, Miss Swann."

Elizabeth knew she was being toyed with and anger joined her fear.

"So you're the housekeeper today," she said, her chin jutting out defiantly. "The mistress of Lord Beckett's household. Murder does not suit you anymore?"

Mrs. Prior folded her hands before her and met Elizabeth's gaze. Her eyes were wide and almost too bright, pain-streaked. "No murder today, miss." She fiddled with the bandage about her hand and Elizabeth felt a surge of satisfaction. Ah yes, Mrs. Prior hadn't truly bested her after all.

"You play the part of the widow well. Hmm, your appearance is almost respectable."

"Why thank you, miss and I thought that manners were only reserved for the rich."

Elizabeth ignored the jab and edged her way closer to the nightstand. Her hand closed over the vase, the cool porcelain a balm against her sweaty skin. "What do you want?"

Mrs. Prior looked somewhat surprised by her forwardness and she swayed a little on the spot, her hips shifting saucily. "You see, miss," she said in an overly shrill voice, one which Elizabeth suspected was an attempted imitation of her own, "I'm not here to play the widow or the housekeeper today. I'm a courier. His Lordship has a message for you."

"Has he?" Elizabeth feigned eagerness. "Well, then by all means, enlighten me."

"It isn't much of a message." Mrs. Prior frowned, or pouted as Elizabeth fancied. "More of a request-no a command. Lord Beckett rarely makes requests."

"Out with it." The vase quivered in Elizabeth's shaking hand. She tried to measure the distance between her and her adversary in her mind, judging which angle would be best to launch the missile from.

"Lord Beckett wagers that you've tired of dining alone, especially when such poor, servant's fare has been offered to you. He wonders, miss, would you be willing to dine with him tonight?" Mrs. Prior seemed to spit out her obviously rehearsed speech. And then she raised a brow, as if hoping, praying, Elizabeth would decline the offer. But the invitation was certainly tempting to Elizabeth and she relished in the thought of being out in the open at last, where she could dash away down some dark corridor with nothing but the shadows to chase after her.

"Well, if he insists," and she cleared her throat a little, her dry tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

Mrs. Prior stared at her and her eyes were suddenly suspicious. "So that's it? You'll dine with him?"

"Did I not just say so?"

"I'm not quite sure." Mrs. Prior took a ponderous step closer, one that Elizabeth thought made the floor shake. She forced herself to remain clam. Fear gave this woman power over her.

"I just said so," she repeated firmly. Her fingers were now completely wrapped around the vase and she thought that she could hear her blood hurrying through her veins, racing to her galloping heart. "Are you a half-wit?"

"No." Mrs. Prior recoiled and seemed to remember herself suddenly. She bowed her head, pantomiming respect and diffidence. "Not at all, miss. I had only thought you would scorn my master's offer."

"Then you are indeed a fool." Elizabeth felt her power grow as she spoke, welling within the pit of her stomach and giving her strength with each breath she took. For the first time, she began to loosen her grip on the vase. Mrs. Prior now had her back to the door and she looked somewhat cowed, a beast at bay.

She sighed vacantly. "Oh, so I see. I was so very wrong, I'm sorry."

Elizabeth tossed her head. "Well, I am glad you understand now."

"Yes." Mrs. Prior paused by the door, one long hand clenching over the knob. "He won't let you go, you know."

Elizabeth stiffened but kept her face firm. "I did not think so."

"You should lose some of your manner, he does not like arrogance in a woman."

"I have no intention of pleasing him at all."

"Good. I must go now. The guards will come to fetch you tonight."

And the door clicked open and with it, Elizabeth felt her chest tighten, her heart contracting with dreadful uncertainty. She must know.

"Wait!"

Mrs. Prior paused and appeared annoyed. Her dark brows drew together, giving her face a horribly starved look.

"You'd be wise not to press me, miss," she said and in her voice Elizabeth heard a feral growl. Only then did she realize that Mrs. Prior had, with difficulty, restrained herself throughout the entirety of their discourse. It had been a challenge for her to remain in the same room with her escaped prey and her narrowed eyes slid towards Elizabeth with an undeniably predatory glint darkening her gaze.

"I won't," Elizabeth said quickly and at once, she reached for the vase. "I would only ask…I only wish to know…" Damn, she was stumbling, her words tripping and becoming tangled before she could stop them.

Mrs. Prior inhaled and her chest swelled beneath her black widow's garb. The color seemed to mock her white skin and gave her a false air of civility, of sympathy. But Elizabeth certainly did not pity this woman.

"What is it?" Mrs. Prior's tone had turned cold, deadly and Elizabeth felt smothered as though she already lay in the dank earth.

"My father," she choked, her mind still struggling against Mrs. Prior's steely hands that had so recently been around her neck, "what have you done with him?"

"Ah." And now Mrs. Prior looked delighted. She even laughed a little, that distinctive "ha ha" of hers that assuredly came from the dark depths of her poisoned soul. "Oh, I killed him, miss, yes I did. Lord Beckett had him buried last night. Did you not hear the cart roll by your window?"

Elizabeth's heart plummeted and the world collapsed, falling in jagged shards about her. She could not think, no, but still she managed to lift the vase and hurl it at the demon darkening the doorway. Her aim was off and Mrs. Prior stepped to the side, exaggerating the actual danger she had been in.

"Ha ha," she laughed and looked down at the now powdered porcelain, the shredded rose. And she headed out into the hall, slipping the key into the lock and securing the door.

Elizabeth gasped and wept, wishing almost that she had been throttled and dispatched to waiting arms of her father.

* * *

Mrs. Prior leaned against the door. Pain wrapped tight about her arm, concentrating on the broken and sweating flesh of her hand. She wiped her brow that was already slick with the dew of fever. A thud sounded on the door, Miss Swann having obviously launched herself at it in a fit of fury and grief. Mrs. Prior heard her all consuming sobs and recognized such sorrow, such pain that never faded but remained as sharp as the day it blossomed. 

But no pity stirred in Mrs. Prior's heart. Governor Swann, after all, was very much alive. And although Lord Beckett had deliberately restricted her from harming Miss Swann, she had indulged in some manner of less life-threatening sport.

Once Mrs. Prior had checked the door and was certain that all was secure, she fell to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. Oh, she was so very weak these days. Lord Beckett would not tolerate weakness and he had seemed quite displeased when she had whimpered in her sleep the previous night. He hated any show of extreme emotion.

As it was, he had spent a greater part of the week lecturing her on restraint. He stressed control and always seemed quite keen to discuss what he called 'stoicism' a trait she had noticeably not displayed when attempting to do away with Miss Swann. And although Mrs. Prior could care less about his speeches, she loved to listen to the perfect sound of his voice, a warm, rich murmur that lulled her to sleep-until he jabbed at her and forced her to wake. She must listen, she must pay attention. Restraint was a precious lesson she needed to learn.

Lord Beckett had sent her to Miss Swann that afternoon as a sort of test. Polly the maid or anyone of the guards could have relayed his message, but he needed her to prove herself, as always. Mrs. Prior did not feel much like proving herself these days, especially when she so oft felt ill.

Suddenly, Mrs. Prior felt very embarrassed. Shame curled inside her. It crawled up through her gut and rooted deep in her chest were it lingered. Her face flushed.

Elizabeth Swann did not seem embarrassed at all, no, she was strong, sure of herself. And then Mrs. Prior began to feel herself slip away, far away into the black where only the most wretched dwelled. She remembered the slums of London. The mean hovels where screams and wails peppered the sooty night air. She had known Hell, yes and torment and the living fires that gnawed at one's flesh. And she had known terror, unabashed, unconcealed terror. Poor John, he had even tried to scrape together a living for them after…the fire.

She rested her head on her knees and took a deep breath that was stabbed by the pain in her hand.

Footsteps brought her shakily to her feet and she walked to the head of the staircase. Polly, the maid, was struggling with a basket of laundry in her thin arms. Mrs. Prior stepped aside to let her pass, her eyes latching onto a poorly stitched shirt lying on top of the pile.

"What is this?" She snatched it from the maid.

"Lord Beckett's," Polly puffed. "It needed mending."

"Hmm." Mrs. Prior inspected the stitches and pulled the fabric taut until it ripped open once more. Polly uttered a small cry.

"Is that what you call mending?" she asked

Polly's mouth fell open, her red lips trembling as she set the basket down at her feet. "Mrs. Prior, I-"

"Never mind." Mrs. Prior folded the shirt carefully and tucked it underneath her arm. "I shall mend it myself. Now on your way."

Polly did as she was told, snatching up her basket and ambling down the hall without once turning to glance over her shoulder. Mrs. Prior waited until she was out of sight before she held the shirt to her cheek, smelling the soft scent of the perfume he wore. It had been close to his flesh, that she knew, straight against his breast where his heart beat. She shivered and pressed her lips to the fabric. Such an intimate display of affection would undoubtedly annoy Lord Beckett, but she stole the quiet moment for herself, imagining that it was he that she kissed instead of linen. She worried, oh she worried what he would think if he saw her standing there. Undoubtedly, it would not be long until she was out on the streets or tossed away into prison. Tears bit Mrs. Prior 's eyes and she dried them with her own hand, stuffing the shirt into her fist. She would mend it for him, yes, she would fix all that she could.

* * *

Elizabeth's palms were raw from pounding on the door and she staggered away from it, leaning over the chamber pot to vomit. 

Her father, her loving father, dead…

How had it happened, she wondered wildly, falling onto the bed which only mocked the softness of his embrace. Had he been throttled? Had he known nothing but pain until he finally passed from the world?

Elizabeth curled herself into a ball and cried. There was no denying the blame. The fault was entirely hers. Oh, if only she had stayed in the coach, if only she had gone down to the docks with him and not chased after the Letters of Marque. He would be alive, surely and safe. Perhaps they would both be on their way to England. And what a wondrous thought that was now, almost too brilliant in it's perfection.

She rolled onto her stomach and slowly, her sobs softened and the room was silent once more. Elizabeth could not think of the compass or Jack or even Will. No, for the first time in her life she was consumed with relentless rage, a rage that demanded the blood of both Mrs. Prior and Lord Beckett. And she marveled now, that anticipated revenge was such a distraction from grief.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter seven of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta**, **Olivegreeneyes**, **PirateKnightoftheRings**, **ScarletSnidget **and **PearlSparrow13**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Seven**

Lord Beckett was surprised, quite surprised, when the door to his dining room swung open and Elizabeth Swann swept in accompanied by two guards. She had the air of Aphrodite about her, but looked like a peasant girl in her tattered gown. He smiled, stood and gestured to an empty chair next to his elbow. The guards shut the door quietly behind them.

"Why, my lord," she said in a voice that was falsely simpering, "have I caught you unawares? Has your dependable courier, Mrs. Prior, failed to relay my message?"

"She mentioned something," he whispered and the heavy night air seemed to twist his words. Elizabeth took a jerky step forward and sat. Beckett did not bother to push her chair in.

"And where is she?"

Ah, was there a bit of fear in brave Miss Swann's face? Perhaps. Camilla often had that effect on the doughtiest of men and women, although Beckett himself could quickly reduce her to a pile of quivering tears. How strange the world was.

"Not here." He sat at the head of the long table, indecently long really, with the far end lost to shadows. A clawed candelabra had been lit and stood sentry to his left. The light reached only far enough to encapsulate Elizabeth.

She wasn't very pretty now, he decided. There was something dreadful in her eyes, something desperate and desperation made her ugly. He sat back in his chair, repulsed and waited for his dinner.

The quietude did not bother him, but apparently Elizabeth was the sort to prattle. It was a pleasant change, really, when he was often greeted with stony silence and forced to wallow in the very depths of solitude. Having a ghost of a person for a companion was not like having a companion at all, really.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, looking thoroughly clever. "Which asylum did you buy her from? Bedlam?"

"No asylums. I found her in the slums of London."

"That would have been my second guess."

Lord Beckett indulged in a wicked smile which made Elizabeth noticeably tense. He leaned over the table toward her, his green coat spilling over the white linen cloth like moss. "You certainly are keen to speak on Mrs. Prior."

"Curious, you might say." Her words were quick now, short jabs. He saw her chest rise and fall. Something stirred within him.

"I expected your curiosity, but on other matters. The compass, Mr. Turner, your father even."

She flinched and looked hateful, vengeful. Beckett sat back in his chair and wine was brought forth, set on the table in two crystal goblets. He drank. She did not.

"Tell me, what persuaded you to join me?"

"I think you know." And Elizabeth looked up through golden lashes and at once he thought her some feral goddess trapped in a flowering glade. Yes, there was even a fresh scent about her, like newly shorn grass.

But she was only teasing him, that he knew. Conquest was never so easy. Even indifferent Camilla put up a struggle at first, weeping something about her dead husband and loyalty that never existed in the first place. This fair flower certainly would not submit so readily and if she did, he would turn her away. After all, where was the sport in that?

"I did not take you for a wanton girl, miss," he said, equally teasing. She looked annoyed and the candlelight darted across her face as she turned away from him.

"I'm not, my lord."

"Then why?"

A tureen of soup was brought in by a cautious servant. Two steaming bowls of broth where placed before them and Beckett fondled his spoon. Elizabeth, however, sat still.

As it was, the exercise had been meant for Mrs. Prior, really, not Elizabeth. He had been certain, so very certain that she would turn down his invitation. But what he really wanted was for his black widow to employ restraint for once. And she had, quite successfully. Apparently, she had also become clever with words for now Elizabeth Swann sat before him. Two birds killed with a single, sharp stone. He would certainly have to reward Mrs. Prior after tonight.

Beckett found his appetite decidedly lacking now that he had company. He put down his spoon. Things would have to be drawn out to the very breaking point. He wanted her to come to him. There was no pleasure in rushing things, after all. And perhaps when everything was concluded, he would have a pretty new mistress, one who was intimately familiar with the Caribbean and might be used as a bargaining chip when necessary. Of course, Will Turner would need subduing in time and the governor needed to be controlled. Yes, Elizabeth Swann would do just fine.

Satisfied with his logic, he rose and leaned against the arm of his chair. Elizabeth looked up somewhat reluctantly.

"My lord?"

"You have not answered my question," he said impatiently.

"I have quite forgotten it."

"Why did you come here tonight?"

Again, silence. He noticed her hands clench, her elegant fingers turning white with what he suspected was rage. She too, had restrained herself with difficulty and now she stood, slowly, purposefully.

"I know what you have done."

A brow was raised. "Miss?"

"And they call you a gentleman." Her face flushed, her lips drawing back as she snarled. Beckett was shocked by the sudden appearance of her feral manner, but it was a most intriguing thing and he was reminded of why he had spared her in the first place.

"I am," he parried, still savoring her opening thrust. Oh he had been hoping for this, a battle with her.

She drew back her shoulders and stood there like some magnificently dignified general. The girl would have made a fine Caesar, perhaps, if the heathens still danced in their sacred groves. But alas, all had fallen to science and reason now.

"It's a strange gentleman that keeps a woman such as Mrs. Prior," she said, "and I would think that you are frightened of her, frightened that she might turn on you, snap at the lavish hand that feeds her."

Beckett swallowed and shifted his weight, along with his position. Elizabeth was searching for a weakness, any weakness. "Not at all, she is quite tame, I assure you."

"Any creature that needs taming is unstable."

"Indeed and I much enjoy the adventure of it."

She was repulsed, briefly, but then recovered brilliantly. Her nostril's flared and she had the look of a wild mare of the moors. "I know what you have done."

"Ah, so you think that by recounting my somewhat unseemly actions, that you may induce me to change, miss?" Beckett even laughed a little, which seemed to infuriate her, to infuse her with hate. "I have a stony heart and my resolve is of iron. There is not much that troubles me."

But she was beyond reason and her reckless mind made her beautiful.

"You murdered my father."

And despite his stoicism, his iron resolve and stone heart, Beckett flinched.

Mrs. Prior would know his wrath before the night was through.

* * *

She had been cast from the house and it vexed her, no angered her. Yes, she was furious. Polly had tried to soften the blow by fixing her a cup of tea which hopefully contained laudanum. Mrs. Prior sipped it greedily as she lay on one of the small beds in the servants' quarters. The building was separated from the main house, a cramped, tight thing which was utterly despised by her. After all, she would much rather doze comfortably in his lordship's feather-soft embrace. 

But not tonight or so she had been told. Damn that Miss Swann. Mrs. Prior wished all the more that she had finished the business, left the wench to stink and rot in the prison courtyard as a corpse. But now she was dining alongside Lord Beckett.

How very unfair that was.

Mrs. Prior stared at the yellow ceiling. Steam rain in sweaty beads down the walls and she almost felt as though she were dying. Misshapen faces taunted her. She fancied she heard laughter. The tea cup rolled to the floor and she did not bother to right it. The stable boy sitting in the corner jumped but kept to his own business. No one rightly disturbed her unless they had to. After all, she wasn't really a servant, but the mistress of the household, yes the mistress. Hmm, it had been a long time since she had been mistress of anything, a very long time indeed.

Ah, laudanum. There must have been some in the tea after all. She was mellow now, exhausted. But her body was throbbing and she touched her wrist, her heart jumping frantically beneath her skin.

"Polly's tried to poison me," she laughed. Her words echoed away from her and there seemed to be a mist between the world and her mind.

Mrs. Prior rolled over and tried to ignore the sweat that stuck to her burning flesh. Christ, her hand ached. Perhaps it would fall off. She stared at it and touched the bandage. It was wet. The stable boy glanced at her now.

"The surgeon'll have to cut it off," she told herself and her voice was a gurgle in the back of her throat. "And it's a damn shame too, John says my hands are our livelihood. Can't sew without them. Where is he? Has he come in yet?"

The stable boy murmured something, but it was all lost to the roaring in her ears.

"Should've killed the Swann wench," she said, before slipping into an uneasy sort of sleep.

* * *

_John Prior came in at seven o'clock, as always. Camilla heard his lumbering step in the hall. The door swung open._

_"Hello, my pretty, what have you there?" He kissed her on the cheek and chin, rain still sticking to his wiry hair that spilled from his messy queue._

_She put down the sleeve she had been stitching and smiled. "Lady Winshaw was by this morning. Her daughter is marrying in the fall and she wants a gown. Look." And she flipped open her ledger where nonsensical squiggles passed for nearly illiterate writing. She had to pretend for the rich ladies, pretend she could read and write just as they did and was therefore worthy to cloth them in their finery. "Pearls and silk and lace. I'll have to order it all."_

_John took off his overcoat and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. He stooped to warm his hands by the cackling fire. A massive man he was, tall, with broad shoulders, virile, like some muscled Hun or Greek hero of Sparta. And yet he was gentle. Not an intelligent sort of fellow, nor a master of his chosen trade. But a good man._

_"I can go tomorrow. Just scribble down the numbers, will you? I can't keep all those yards and such straight in my head."_

_"Thank you." Camilla sighed in relief. She would have more time to finish Mrs. Nevinson's gown by then, and if she worked by candlelight, perhaps she might be done by dawn._

_John straightened slowly. "Where's Betty run off to?"  
_

_

* * *

_

_No one would ever love her again, Camilla was certain of that. He stood across from her, one hand on the edge of the ash-colored tombstone. She had never seen John look so stricken. Black did not suit him._

_Amber leaves tumbled over the earthen mound._

_She waited, standing there for what seemed like an agonized year. Night was falling, the parson had already left. And oh, even a man of God had no words of comfort for her._

_At length, John looked up and the sky was grey behind his head._

_"I love you, my pretty."_

_Camilla did not bother to dab at her tears.  
_

_

* * *

_

_He was sleeping, or so one would guess from the perfect stillness about him. And yet, his brown eyes were open and no soft inhale raised his chest._

_She hadn't meant…how had it happened…_

_Camilla crawled cautiously over him, her legs tucked neatly over his. "John, John, won't you wake? John, I'm sorry, I hadn't meant…John!"_

_He did not stir and Camilla finally realized what she had done. Her hands, once so tender, once so eager to bestow affectionate caresses upon him, trembled._

_"John!" She shook him, but he did not rouse. "John! John!"_

_The warmth was leaving him and she wept over his chest._

_"John! John!"_

_And outside, the sky was bleeding sooty snow.  
_

_

* * *

_

_It was autumn again in the city of London and her breath fogged the air. She had walked for hours and now dawn peeled the night away. Time was short._

_He didn't see her, no. For hours he had not seen her._

_She had been cautious. She had restrained herself, hid herself in gutters and alleyways and the very darkness that dripped like some dangerous poison over the city. It was all for one moment, for one brief moment when she would pin her victim to the ground and kill._

_Yes, kill. Camilla intended to kill him. Haughty Lord Darby's son. He had lost her the roof over her head and her place with the tailor in Whitechapel. Not that she minded much. Sleeping on the streets was not so daunting a position as it had once been. Even her own mother had turned her out. They all did, in the end._

_He was slowing. She saw the hesitation in his step. Did he sense? Did he know?_

_Camilla stopped, her wet skirts flapping about her legs. She was drenched with the evening mist and the haze that slithered like a gossamer snake through the streets._

_Lord Darby's son looked over his shoulder and for one moment, one brief moment, he saw her._

_She struck, quickly and without much of a fuss on his part. He was a weakling after all. When she finished, he lay at her feet, his fine clothes slightly mussed, his hat off._

_Camilla watched him, somewhat disappointed that it had been over with so quickly. She turned to go._

_"Now that_

_Camilla froze. She had not checked the back alley for spectators…_

_Muscles coiled and tightened. She was ready to spring forth, to run or kill once more. But then Lord Cutler Beckett slinked into view and she was entranced. He stood over the body._

_"Yes, a great amount of skill indeed."_

_There was John again, smiling, laughing, kissing her cheek. And then there were black bruises about his neck and his eyes did not see. John, John, where has Betty run off to? John, John…I'm sorry…the candle…I've forgotten it._

* * *

"Where? John! I…where is he?" Mrs. Prior was weeping when she finally jerked awake. Murky firelight stung her moist eyes and sweat had soaked the sheet beneath her. She looked about wildly. 

John. Where was he? He must be told. She must speak with him, she must tell him. John, John. Did the shadows hide him?

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, ma'am," a small voice answered her. The stable boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor polishing the brow band of a bridle. His tiny mouth was open and Mrs. Prior saw the fright in his eyes. Little fool.

"Where is John?" she demanded, slipping and staggering as she tried to stand. "He must…have you seen him?" And her eyes raked the darkness, searched the far corners of the room. But it was empty, save for the now trembling boy.

"No John here, ma'am," he whimpered, "no one that I know of, anyway."

"Oh." And then Mrs. Prior understood, but still her hands shook. It had been a dream, a fever dream and nothing more. Something sank within her and she tasted the bitter brew of disappointment. John was still dead, murdered….

Suddenly, she didn't much feel like spending the evening in the servants' quarters, locked away like some slave. Instead, Mrs. Prior walked shakily into the yard and twisted her loose hair back in a braid. The air was not yet cool and night had only just fallen, with pale stars lining the eastern horizon. The windows of Lord Beckett's dining room glowed gold. He must still be entertaining that Swann wench.

Mrs. Prior shook herself once, much like a waterlogged dog and she felt restored. Well, perhaps she should check in on them. Yes, that was what she would do. Only for a moment. His lordship could hardly punish her for _that_.

* * *

Elizabeth could not contain her rage. It stormed within her, a thick black cloud residing in her breast and pounding against her heart. She stared at Beckett and hoped her eyes would bore into his flesh and brand his skin with flames. He had robbed her of everything she had ever held dear and she wanted him dead. 

Yes, dead, Elizabeth thought and she was almost shocked by her determination. She had never killed a man before and only fought to survive, but now she wanted to kill because she could.

Beckett looked somewhat stunned himself and in the harsh candlelight, his face flushed.

"So you say," his lips barely moved. Elizabeth wanted to bash in his smart mouth. Hours she had spent in her chamber, thinking, planning, envisioning his end. Her father was gone and she wanted him to feel the enormous pain that pulsed against her skin. She wanted him to suffer.

Her hands began to tremble then, her control slipping.

Not now, not now, she chided herself. But when? Surely, she had the opportunity now and surely she could overpower him, couldn't she?

But what of Will? The guards would overhear, of course and the gallows awaited her. Elizabeth needed to live for Will and in doing so, she needed to keep Lord Beckett alive.

A soul-shaking sigh escaped her. Beckett seemed to recover himself. He lifted his head, a quizzical look darkening his sharp eyes.

"Who told you such?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Elizabeth did not think she could speak. With difficulty, she mastered herself, a cruel smile twisting her full lips. "Your whore."

"Mrs. Prior?"

"Indeed."

Beckett paled. "Did she now? Did she? Well-"

"And you may think," Elizabeth began, now unable to stop herself, "you may think that one man's life is meaningless, just another pair of boots for the hangman, just another coil of rope twisted about a neck, but there are others that will take notice. My father was beloved by many. You have much to fear, Lord Beckett, _much _to fear."

There, she had said it all. Beckett was leaning against the table, his face the same hue of the white wax that dripped over the candelabra. He was a pallid thing now and his wide eyes showed naught but a cold soul within

Elizabeth turned about for she could gaze on him no longer. Her skirts whipped and whistled across the floor, the cold door knob steadying her shaking hand as she twisted it open. The corridor beyond was dark and empty…save for the ghost of a woman that stood before her.

Elizabeth jerked back, surprised and Mrs. Prior seemed quite as shocked as she.

Yet then, all restraint was abandoned and the madwoman snarled. "You would have made a pretty corpse, yes, a pretty corpse to rot within a moldy graze."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, to spit the most wretched and foul curses she could conjure at the widow. But Lord Beckett was out in the hall then and Mrs. Prior cringed, recoiling in the light that drifted from the dining room.

"_You_." His eyes were narrowed, dark. For the first time that evening, Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken with fear.

"My lord, I-" Mrs. Prior began but it was too late. He lashed out and grabbed her bandaged hand and Elizabeth did not think she would ever forget the shriek that followed. Servants and soldiers came running.

"Back to your work," he ordered with Mrs. Prior sobbing hysterically at his feet. "And you," Beckett gestured to a sentry, "take Miss Swann to her room, _now_."

"Yes, sir."

The soldier was gentle and Elizabeth felt a soft hand close about her arm. But she was lost in a stupor, in a nightmare and she could not help but look over her shoulder as she was led away.

Lord Beckett had taken Mrs. Prior into the dining room.

"Camilla," he said in a voice that was too deceptively soft to be kind, "dear Camilla, what am I going to do with you?"

* * *

Bedlam or The Bethlem Royal Hospital of London is the oldest psychiatric hospital in the world.

Laudanum is an opium tincture, a pain killer that was used to remedy dozens of maladies. It became wildly popular amongst the Romantic poets and Victorians of the 19th century and is highly, highly addictive.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Autho's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter eight of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta**, **Olivegreeneyes**, **PirateKnightoftheRings**, **ScarletSnidget **and **Ladybug21**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Eight**

As Beckett shut the door, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Elizabeth Swann retreating down the hall in her costly gown. She had the look of a subdued doe, he thought, with clear round eyes and a face crafted by cherubs. He sighed and turned back to the hell hound at his heels. Well, in truth, Mrs. Prior looked more of a cross between a stray bitch and a gutter rat now, her guard both raised and restrained. Humph, restraint. She had learned little from him after all.

"Camilla," he said in a gentle voice, hoping to settle her some. She was plucking frantically at the bandage on her hand and he saw a hint of the mangled mess beneath the yellowed linen. His nose wrinkled, sweat staining the genteelly perfumed air. "Camilla, why did you tell Miss Swann that her father was murdered?"

He made sure to use the aptly picked term "Miss Swann" for calling the governor's daughter by her given name could be disastrous at such a tense moment. He half expected Mrs. Prior to uncoil in her fury, unwind like a tightly tied length of rope. But she only blinked rapidly, as if the dull candlelight burned her eyes.

"Because she's a damned whore."

Beckett felt a sigh rise within him, welling up from his stomach. He placed one hand on his hip and offered her a falsely sympathetic smile. "You are being unreasonable and I'm not one to suffer nonsense gladly, so I will ask again. Camilla, why did you tell Miss Swann that her father was murdered?"

Mrs. Prior fell back against the table and Elizabeth's wine goblet spilled. Beckett ignored the crimson liquid which dripped languidly to the floor, pooling in a black puddle against the wooden boards.

"Because I hate her," Mrs. Prior replied at length. There was something in her eyes that made Beckett furious and he loathed the way she looked at him so innocently. A woman such as her should not appear innocent.

"My dear, you hate the world," he said, his hand sliding from his hip and dangling at his waist.

"No." She chewed on her lower lip. "I don't hate you, my lord."

The air tensed about them, becoming suddenly intimate. Beckett felt as though he had been knocked from off his horse and now lay gasping on the cold ground. Reduced, yes, that was the word. They were standing eye to eye, toe to toe, no difference between master and slave.

Unconsciously, his lip curled in disgust and he tilted his chin up. But Mrs. Prior only stared at him, defiantly so. Beckett lashed out and caught her jaw in his hand.

"Do you understand?" he asked as she whimpered, "do you understand what you have done?" He searched her eyes for some intelligence, a flicker of comprehensive that would prove she was a living woman after all. But she had a corpse's unseeing gaze, that haunted, numb thing that was too dark to be alive.

"I just wanted to vex her, my lord," she said. Her voice was soft, yet malicious, with a hardened edge. "She deserves to feel pain, wretch that she is. A happy life she has had, filled with feather beds and silk and pretty pearls to string about her neck. I want her to see how life is, my lord, it is _she_ who needs to understand."

Beckett released her. She stumbled, slamming against the table. The candelabra wobbled and blinked like a deceiving fairy lantern.

"Not everyone is so wretched as you," he said. Mrs. Prior seemed somewhat more acquiescent, but then she lifted her head and her eyes were alive with the light of the moon that crept in through the windows.

"But you are, my lord."

He struck her across the cheek but pain never vexed her much. She was a tough creature. The slums had destroyed her. Beckett almost wished he had met her in brighter days, when she was fresh and kind and something other than what she was now. It was horrid to see such a tortured being, but even worse to speculate over what had been. The past was a shadow that followed her but never fell across her path. He could only guess at things and hold lost names in his mind like small trinkets to be inspected in times of great boredom. Camilla Prior was too much of a mystery to him and Lord Beckett hated unanswered questions.

"You assume such of me," he said, "but I _know _such of you. There is a difference, a grand difference in that."

"One wretch is quite the same as another." She sagged against the table, looking impossibly weary. "I've spent many a night in a ratty lodging houses with piss-stained blankets and I've spent just as many nights asleep on the streets, my lord, but I was never so wretched as Elizabeth Swann was when I lied to her and told her that her father was dead." Mrs. Prior smiled to herself and there was something of triumph in her stance.

Beckett despised her sudden confidence.

"I wonder," he said, daring to draw forth his greatest weapon against her. It had worked on equally desperate occasions when she needed quick subduing after an outburst of some kind. But in truth, he disliked using such a tactic, for it was more than a little unsavory to mock a mourning mother. "I wonder if you are disturbed because Elizabeth Swann bears the same name as your daughter. But you called her Betty, didn't you? And so did John. Yes, Betty was her name."

Mrs. Prior stared at him. Tears sprang from her eyes and she looked revolted as though he had confronted her with the most wicked of things, for in the end, even Camilla Prior had a heart, albeit a treacherous one.

"Betty," she said softly. The hairs on the back of Beckett's neck stood on end. He felt nauseous and suddenly he wished that he had never brought up the girl. Mrs. Prior would most assuredly be worse now.

But then something surprising happened. Instead of crumbling or collapsing in upon herself and falling to her knees in defeat, Mrs. Prior stood still. Her face sharpened and the tears ceased and she looked nothing short of furious.

"Don't speak her name," she said in a high, quivering voice. "You have no right, no right at all. Never speak her name again."

And although he should have been cowed, Beckett felt naught but rage. He wanted to cause her pain in the only other way he knew how and he reached for her. But in the scuffle his hip collided with her swollen hand and pinned it to the table. Mrs. Prior opened her mouth in a soundless scream and threw him off, forcefully. He landed by the hearth and did not move.

Silence. Beckett could only his heart beating. She had never, _never_ tried to hurt him. Violence was reserved for her victims and with him she was mostly a kitten, tamed, beaten down. Always she had taken his punishment calmly and never once revolted against him, even when she was new to his employ and fresh from the noxious gutters. But the Caribbean had done things to her. Perhaps he had been wrong to take her from London, where she knew the streets and the people. Now she was unpredictable and dangerous. Beckett swallowed.

Had he lost control?

The question burned him like the most brutal flames. He wanted to move, to shift and roll onto his side and off his back. Having his stomach and chest exposed seemed like an unwise thing and instinct told him to shield himself. Beckett thought of another man who had died on his back, helpless, or so she had told him.

But still, he forced himself to stay still. He pretended he was injured or at least unconscious. He pretended he was weak. The next few minutes would decide her fate. If she struck then he would call for the guards and have her executed on the spot. One of his fingers twitched and he noticed the heavy poker by his hand. Good.

He heard her shift. She seemed to have fallen to the floor as well and she sniffed.

"Good Christ." Her voice was blunt, not dangerous. Mrs. Prior crawled over to him. One hand slid up his stomach. He flinched. "My lord?"

The warmth of her body seeped into his as she crept closer and despite his attempt to maintain passive, he felt the tempting call of lust. Beckett decided at once that she wasn't dangerous and sat up.

"You're not hurt?"

"No." Her hand was still on his stomach and he glanced up at her. "Let me see your wound."

She did not hesitate. The bandage was unwound and soon he held her sweaty fingers in his. The wound looked awful, the stitches having turned black with dirt and grime. There was a hint of pus about the gash which glared a too bright red. He felt the fever on her skin.

Damn it all.

"I cannot send for the surgeon," Beckett said, removing his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it gently about her hand. "The injury is too suspicious and there is already an indecent amount of attention directed at the Company these days. I can't afford to stir up a revolt just yet."

"I understand, my lord." She rested her hand on his knee, her eyes on the neatly tied handkerchief. Beckett stroked her fingers.

"I'll send the maid for laudanum tomorrow," he said at length, "that should do for now. And I don't think bleeding would benefit you much anyway."

"No." She shook her head, her lips quivering. "I'm sorry we quarreled, my lord and I'm sorry I shoved you, it-"

"Was involuntary, I know." Beckett continued stroking her fingers. It made sense to him now. She had not meant to hurt him, no Mrs. Prior would never do such a thing. He would forgive, but not forget. She still needed to be punished for her indiscretions with the Swann girl, after all.

He looked at her then and so how very sad she was. Well, punishment might be suspended, if only for one night. He needed to think things over.

"Poor, suffering creature," he said. Mrs. Prior sighed and placed her burning forehead on his shoulder. Tamed she was once more, a soft, quiet thing that watched him with adoring eyes and Lord Beckett liked to be adored.

He kissed her, trying his very best to be tender. Things had to be patched up between them, smoothed over. He needed her still.

To his surprise, she responded, her mouth gently tugging at his. He felt her teeth close over his bottom lip. Beckett inhaled sharply, but did not draw away. One arm fell around her waist, bringing her close. Her chest heaved against his and he sensed some measure of eagerness about her.

But there was a danger to it yet. With her face inches from his, with their gasps and cries sounding as one, he could see into her eyes and he knew then, that she could see him. They were close, too close, with their bodies locked together and senses joined. And he had made the unfortunate mistake of revealing himself to her.

She was not to be trusted. She wept that she loved him and needed him and would die if they were sundered only for a breath.

And there was danger in that. They had seen eye to eye, stood toe to toe and clung to each other. They had been too close….

Mrs. Prior slept peacefully then, no horror of a dream pinching her face. Beckett let her rest in his arms, unsettled as he was and watched the moon smile mockingly at him from above the vast expanse of colorless water.

He had come close to peril this night.

* * *

And down the hall there was also peril. Elizabeth had torn the blankets from the bed and overturned the washstand. She had smashed the pitcher and basin and let the cold water seep into the hem of her gown. She had taken his borrowed books and torn the pages from them. And she had pounded against the door until it groaned on it's hinges and the guard shouted for her silence. 

Why had she not killed Beckett then and there?

It seemed like the sane thing now in her throes of madness, to have murdered him in his fine dining room, to have struck him across the back of his head with the golden candelabra.

And yet, she could not bring herself to do it.

Elizabeth collapsed at last upon the bed, exhausted. She longed for fresh air, for sea breezes and a reprieve from the stale interior of her chamber. Why, she had not seen the sky since the night Mrs. Prior had tried to kill her.

Hmm, she almost felt sorry for the beast, well, not _too _sorry. Perhaps she and Beckett would destroy each other before the night was through. Yes. Elizabeth ran her tongue over her dry lips. She would like that very much.

Her situation suddenly seemed very complicated now. She had hoped it would be a simple matter of discovering what Beckett wanted from her. Jack Sparrow had wanted his ship and so he had come to help her. James Norrington had wanted to be loved…

Elizabeth shut her eyes and frowned, the soft skin on her forehead creasing. What did Lord Beckett want?

She feared she knew.

It was a game to him, of course, her life, her very existence on this earth and he assuredly enjoyed playing with her. But she was not to be toyed with.

How then would she gain her freedom? Would she have to surrender her control only to win it back? He delighted in destroying women. Mrs. Prior, for all her ferocity and power, was no less of a prisoner than her.

Elizabeth resigned to wait then, as much as it vexed, to draw things out and go along with the great pretense of his game. She would nurse her grief and pain, tend her fear and torment until she had a worthy plan. And then in the end she would have her freedom and revenge.

The next morning, the nameless maid (who revealed herself as Polly) returned with a change of clothes. The gown was a plain, striped thing with a black petticoat which Elizabeth suspected might have once belonged to Mrs. Prior. Nevertheless, she adorned herself in what she was given and pantomimed the role of defeat. Lord Beckett clearly wished to rub salt into her wounds, for he had requested her presence at dinner again that night or so Polly said.

Elizabeth, being too proud to decline and too clever to pass up such an opportunity, accepted his lordship's invitation. And in her spare hours, she began to plot.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter nine of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta**, **Olivegreeneyes**, and **Ladybug21**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:**I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Nine**

For a week it stormed. Rain was spat from the sky in a relentless wave and more than once, Mrs. Prior fancied that God had broken his covenant with mankind and was fixing to flood the world again. Not that she would mind, really, because her skin burned just as unceasingly as the rain battered the narrow streets of Port Royal. She was feverish and harried and felt altogether ill. And even with a bottle of laudanum kept in her pocket, she still could not escape the pain in her hand. If anything, it had gotten worse.

But despite such torment, she was happy. Pain had never bothered her much and she could contend with illness. And so shrugged off her weariness, took to the streets and taverns as Lord Beckett instructed and at night, gratefully retired to his bed chamber. She didn't even mind that he dined with the Swann whore every eve, for in the end he came to her, called her name and looked to her for pleasure, for comfort.

It was a late Friday afternoon when she came in from some small errand. Polly sat in the kitchen and the pickings of Lord Beckett's supper were on the table. Curiously, Mrs. Prior lifted the lid of one silver platter and saw an empty soup bowl. So the Swann girl had started eating after all.

"Yours is on the sideboard, ma'am," Polly said. She polished a silver fork with her stained apron. Mrs. Prior shook her head.

"Not hungry."

"But you should eat, ma'am, what with the laudanum-"

"Not hungry." Mrs. Prior fished in her musty pocket for the green bottle and drank. A haze entombed her mind, falling like a curtain over reason and thought. But the pain was still there.

Polly stared at her.

"Are you well, ma'am?"

Mrs. Prior wiped her muddy boots on the threshold. The rain had not let up and it drummed on the kitchen roof like a thousand fingertips. Mrs. Prior shut her eyes against the echo. It seemed as though boot heels smashed into her temples and kicked her in the gut until she could scarce breathe.

"Where is his lordship?"

"Upstairs, ma'am."

"And the Swann whore?"

"In her room."

"Good, they are done for the night."

Mrs. Prior shrugged off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair. She would go to Lord Beckett. He was waiting, he always was and she had news to tell him.

Leaving the kitchen, she pulled herself up the long flight of stairs and dark they were in the storm shadows. Candles had been lit along the corridor and she paused by Swann's door. Silence and nothing more. Good.

Lord Beckett was, as she had guessed, waiting for her and he welcomed her with a little nod and a half-hidden smile. Mrs. Prior had come to enjoy his affection. In fact, she had learned that it was not something to shy from, but rather to embrace. After all, things were much more pleasant that way and Mrs. Prior missed soft, pleasant things.

He stood by the window, the curtains parted, the shutters thrown back. One hand perched on his hip.

"What's that down by the docks?" he asked when she stepped into the chamber. A low fire burned in the hearth, but still Mrs. Prior sweated.

"A little workshop caught fire," she said. The storming sky was tinged with red.

"Oh." Lord Beckett glanced at her and she knew what he thought. His eyes were wide. Mrs. Prior shifted, shaking her head. She did not want to think back to London just now.

"They're saying the Swann girl is dead."

"Are they?" He laughed. "And the governor?"

"Soon to be hanged."

"Foolish peasants, the lot of them."

Mrs. Prior smiled, the skin about her mouth stretched taut. Something stung her lips and her body burned, as though she had taken a draught of hot wine all at once. She fussed with her hair in it's loose queue and it fell free. Beckett glanced at her over his shoulder.

"Eager, are we?"

She did not answer, but pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. Beckett smiled.

"You've been a good girl this week, Camilla. Restrained. I am proud of you."

His praise was unexpected, but she basked in it.

"Is there any news of Turner? The compass?"

Mrs. Prior swallowed away a smile. His hope was charming, as was his anticipation. She hated to disappoint him.

"No. I spoke with Captain Greville today. His ship came in this morning. Nothing, he said. Turner may have found Sparrow already, but there has been no sign of either of them. Word was passed along, though and our officers have their eyes open."

Beckett turned from the window. "How very vexing."

"I am sorry, my lord."

"Our progress is stunted." He paced and Mrs. Prior watched him. His steps were short, agitated, his head rocking from side to side. "We must advance things."

"But how, my lord?" Mrs. Prior leaned against the windowsill. Her legs were like water and she felt herself slipping, slipping far away into some dark abyss. A hand clawed at her, tried to pull her beneath the waves where she would drown. But she forced herself upright. Lord Beckett mumbled to himself.

"The Swann girl, we must make use of her."

Mrs. Prior didn't much like the sound of that, but held her tongue. She kicked off her boots and stumbled over to the bed, unable to resist the call of sleep. The feather mattress greeted her, embraced her like a friend and for a moment the pain faded. She fancied that she was back in London and John was still sleeping beside her and little Betty was rushing into their chamber, her bare feet tapping on the floor….

"You still take liberties." Lord Beckett stopped pacing. Mrs. Prior opened her eyes and lifted her head an inch off the pillow.

"I'm sorry, my lord."

"It's the damned laudanum." But still he came to her side and she lifted the blankets for him. She would be his mistress, if he wished, she did not mind so much anymore. After all, she was to him everything the Swann girl wasn't and that was pleasing enough.

Lord Beckett, however, seemed unable to put the wench from his mind.

"What am I going to do with Miss Swann?" he asked.

"I don't know, my lord," she murmured. The shadows were whispering it seemed and there was a howling noise in her ears, like wind, like flames….

"You never do," he grunted, his lips forming a smothering seal over her mouth.

* * *

A fitful sleep fell over Elizabeth and she dozed in her chamber, her dressing gown resting in silken folds over her shoulders. But the night was one of storms and anger and she found she could not rest for long, not when a week had passed and she had progressed little in her bid for freedom. 

God she was tired. Weariness crept into her bones, slithered beneath her flesh and made her a pale, harried creature.

Seven nights. She had spent seven nights in Lord Beckett's company, taking her evening meals in his opulent dining room. And each time she learned to talk a little more, to touch on subjects that held interest for them both.

Will. The compass. Sparrow.

She had told him the full of her previous adventure and time aboard Barbossa's ship. His lordship had seemed only mildly intrigued by such a tale and he brushed away most of her stories with a practiced look, his gaze gliding haughtily down his nose.

And she was vexed now, so very vexed. What did he want?

Elizabeth was not a naïve girl, nor did she ignore the ageless ways of the world that carried on just outside her father's rose garden. Thoughts of lust and other sordid, sinful things crossed her mind. But then she doubted that Lord Beckett could be so foolish. He had Mrs. Prior, his London gutter rat, for a mistress. Keeping herself, the governor's own daughter, for such a purpose invited disaster. Surely he had a greater plan and if not, she would be most disappointed. The man who had disrupted her wedding, sent Will on a useless hunt and overthrown the King's governor had to be smarter than that.

Elizabeth kicked off the blankets and rolled onto her side. Rain. She heard the gentle cadence, the rhythmic staccato of water slapping the roof and drifting down the side of the elegant house. And somewhere far away, she heard a roar, the hiss of dying flames.

A strange lullaby, she thought, but it suited her agitation. She pressed her head against the pillow and let her eyes close. Well, there was always tomorrow and she might try again with Beckett….

A scream shattered the night. Elizabeth jerked up in bed, the sound ripping through her flesh like a white hot blade. A woman was screaming somewhere, desperately, in pain. Elizabeth's heart jumped into her mouth where it remained for a beat or two.

Dear God.

Her limbs were shaking and she rose, racing across her chamber. The door stood in her way, that black, solid thing that partitioned the darkness. She threw herself at it, ignoring the sting of splinters that shredded her palms.

The woman was still screaming.

Mrs. Prior? Elizabeth was terrified. What was Beckett doing to her? Horrors congregated amongst her thoughts and drove away all reason until she thought she would weep. And weep she did, as she beat upon the door and begged to be let out.

The scream broke, fading into wild wailing and ruptured, heart-rending sobs. Elizabeth's skin prickled. Never before had she heard such a sound, such a noise of unending, torturous grief.

And for some strange reason, she thought of her mother, the woman that now lay in a cold English graveyard.

She could not stand her captivity and she was wild, mad with fear.

"Open!" she shrieked. "Open this door!"

Pain nipped at her lungs. Elizabeth took a deep breathe and threw herself against the door. The hinges rattled, sounding like old, rusty bones, but the lock held.

"Let me out!"

Dear God, the woman was still weeping.

"Let me out!"

The lock clicked open, the door gave way and Elizabeth spilled into the corridor in a flash of silk and sweaty hair. Polly the maid stood before her.

"What's happened?" Elizabeth panted. She braced herself against the wall, the shadows pressing against her with their smothering kisses.

"Mrs. Prior," the girl muttered. "Bad dreams, bad dreams again. Lord Beckett does not suffer such. She'll be put out."

Elizabeth wrapped her dressing gown tight about her, shielding herself from the sudden chill and the wordless threat that enveloped Beckett's house.

"I don't understand."

A guard came to the top of the stairs and handed Polly a candle. Golden fingertips of light parted the darkness and Elizabeth was reminded of the sun and just how much she longed for it.

"She'll be put out," Polly repeated. Down the hall another door opened and despite her resolve, her bravery, Elizabeth could not contain herself. She yelped when she saw the ghost fall out into the corridor, for a ghost the woman was, her skin the color of a storming sky and her eyes streaked with terror.

The ghost stood, stumbled a step, then collapsed.

"I'm sorry…I never meant…the candle." With a thin hand she lifted her black hair, her widow's veil. Mrs. Prior was nearly unrecognizable. Tears diluted the sweat on her cheeks and Elizabeth thought she beheld a dying woman. Something was wretchedly wrong….

Trembling, the villain, the once eager murderess, cowered in the corner, garbed in naught but a thin, virgin white shift. Lord Beckett strode into the corridor and leaned over her, his mahogany curls falling in beatific disarray about his shoulders.

Elizabeth felt an unforgiving wave of heat sweep through her. He too was in naught but his nightclothes, a pair of thin breeches and a shirt.

"Screaming at all hours of the night," he snarled, his nose wrinkling as he studied the pitiful creature at his feet. "What's the matter with her?"

Polly stepped forward and thrust her candle directly under Mrs. Prior's chin. "I wager she's taken ill, my lord or else she's mad. One can never tell with Mrs. Prior."

"Hmm, indeed." Beckett ran a finger along her cheek and then withdrew it, as if by touching her his own flesh would absorb her sickness.

It was then, in the quiet corridor, in the still hall with the whispering candle flame, that Elizabeth witnessed something most remarkable. There were three guards on the stairs now and each craned a neck to get a better look at Mrs. Prior. And each in turn shook his head, mumbling insults and injuries as if their words could flay the skin from her bones.

Polly the maid pushed her candle closer and made Mrs. Prior flinch. Wax pooled about the base of the holder and dripped dangerously close to the woman's foot. Lord Beckett was staring at his pet as though she had gone rabid and foamed at the mouth. Elizabeth herself felt revulsion stir within her stomach, along with unceasing disdain.

And in such a manner, Mrs. Prior lost all of her power.

Elizabeth marveled at her reduced state and how quickly they had turned against her, now shunning her like the miserable wretch she truly was.

No longer did Mrs. Prior possess the uncanny ability to instill fear. No longer could she stride through the halls with her whispering footsteps and conjure carefully crafted threats to torment those who opposed her. No longer was she the woman in the black, the dreaded, haunted presence that bewitched all with her calm smile. Her balanced domination, the sheer delicacy of her hold over house was shredded.

Something had changed and so had Mrs. Prior.

Beckett made a small noise in the back of his throat. "She's delirious. To the servants' quarters. I shan't have that _thing _in my chamber."

This obviously did not appeal to Polly. Her hand shook, the candle weeping wax.

"She'll keep us up half the night, my lord."

"Perhaps." Beckett seemed unconcerned. He nudged at Mrs. Prior with his foot and she struggled to her feet, her eyes slits of pain.

"My blood," she moaned, "it's in my blood and bones." And she shivered violently.

"See, my lord," Polly sniveled. "She'll be at it all night, terror that she is. You ought to put her out in the street."

"No." Beckett rolled his shoulders. Elizabeth caught sight of his pink flesh, the muscles tensing and clenching beneath his night shirt. She looked away.

Mrs. Prior took a shaky step forward then crumpled to the floor. Her shift stuck to her skin and even Elizabeth was ashamed of her undressed state.

"She can't walk," Polly tried once more.

"Then carry her."

A reluctant guard moved into the corridor. With little ceremony or care, he stooped down, gathered up Mrs. Prior and threw her over his shoulder. She cried that they were hurting her, but her pleas were ignored and soon she faded away, down the stairs and out into the storm.

The spell was broken and Elizabeth felt suddenly alive again. Lord Beckett sighed.

"How very unfortunate." He shook his head and in doing so, noticed her standing in the hall. "Why Miss Swann, I do hope we didn't disturb you."

Her voice died, her body locking and freezing when he looked at her.

"Not at all," she managed, a sneer making her words cold.

Beckett nodded and turned back into his chamber. "Good." A second guard stepped forward. Elizabeth grudgingly returned to her prison, cursing as the door was shut and footsteps echoed, then disappeared into the night.

Her heart was still pounding when she laid herself down, though her mind sharpened. She took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air of the chamber and the lingering perfume of the white rose.

She understood things now and more importantly, she understood Lord Beckett.

Mrs. Prior was no more. Her reign had ended. She was no longer Beckett's jewel, but some strange, ill thing. Lord Beckett would soon need another. And he clearly wanted her.

Elizabeth's stomach clenched. She curled herself under the coverlets and pretended that Will slumbered peacefully beside her. But where was Will?

Elizabeth needed to know and Lord Beckett needed her. Perhaps they could reach a compromise?

No, no she would not compromise. She did not want to become Mrs. Prior, after all.

The mere notion set Elizabeth's heart throbbing. But she would never be Mrs. Prior, for she was loved and possessed that most coveted treasure, a life worth living.

And yet something nagged at her, gnawed at her resolve and eroded her hope. Perhaps Mrs. Prior had once been loved. Perhaps she had once been happy and enjoyed her life. Could a person truly be born so wretched?

With difficulty, she dragged her thoughts back to Lord Beckett. Mrs. Prior's supremacy was over and hers would begin. Elizabeth Swann was not a naïve girl and she was well aware of the art of seduction and the base things that transpired outside her father's rose garden. But she would not wait until tomorrow night, until the ebony veil drained the sky of it's glory. Tomorrow morning, yes, she would begin to demand things of Beckett, end her torturous limbo, her unsure existence. And she would not compromise.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter ten of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta**, **PirateKnightoftheRings**, **Rohkal**, **Scarlet Snidget**, **Olivegreeneyes**, and **Ladybug21**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Ten**

Elizabeth was already awake when the guard brought her breakfast the next morning. She sat on the edge of her bed, garbed in plain blue short gown and a cream-colored petticoat. Her hair was twisted back in a pretty bun, two long, delicate locks curling about the base of her neck.

The guard set her tray down on the side table, one curious eye on her indifferent features. He gestured at the bowl of porridge and the black, cold looking mug of coffee.

"Miss."

"I don't want it." Elizabeth braced her hands on the bed. The guard shook his head.

"Not my business."

"Actually, it is."

He fidgeted now. A thick thumb hooked into his pocket and he shifted his sinewy legs.

"Miss-"

"You will inform Lord Beckett that I desire to dine with him this morning. We did not have the opportunity to finish our conversation last night."

The guard laughed. Elizabeth shot to her feet.

"I think you will do it, sir," she said, letting her voice groan under the threat she intended to pose. "I think you will go and speak with Lord Beckett directly. And do hurry, I am not the least bit patient."

Memories of idle days flitted across her mind. Elizabeth remembered her life as the governor's only daughter, the governor's beloved child and the jewel of Port Royal. There had not been a man then or a woman who would not hasten to do her bidding. Haughty, yes, she had been haughty. The mark of Cain, the brand of good-breeding had been laid upon her and it was indestructible, a thing that would remain until Death sharpened his scythe and wielded it against her. And even Lord Beckett could not deprive her of that.

The guard stared at the tray like a lost dog, his jaw tensing and tightening.

"His lordship made no mention of such."

"Then remind him."

She would not be swayed. No, Elizabeth needed this, needed to capture the first pawn and win at least one victory. How else might she secure Lord Beckett's favor?

The guard hesitated still, but his heavy feet took him to the door and down the hall. Elizabeth waited, impatient. It was still raining. She heard the gentle patter, the whisper of the breeze on the rooftop.

A moment passed and the guard returned. He stepped to the side, held open the door and glanced into the corridor.

"His lordship is waiting, miss."

A small victory, but a victory none-the-less. Elizabeth did not fuss over the details. Why had Beckett ceded so easily? She reminded herself that he was a curious creature and she would make herself a mystery, one that he would hopefully never unravel.

The house seemed somehow brighter that morning and although the sky was still treacherously grey, faint light dripped through the long windows. Elizabeth walked demurely behind the guard and was led to a separate room, one which she had never been in. The door was open, revealing a small, yet stately study. Lord Beckett sat at a round table, his china tea service perched on a silver platter. There were linen napkins edged with lace, dainty pitchers of cream and a sugar bowl. And Lord Beckett mirrored the genteel appearance of his china. He was wearing a blue brocade frock coat and Elizabeth thought the color suited his eyes.

The guard bowed his way out into the hall and shut the door. Beckett contemplated his teacup for a long minute until Elizabeth thought she might burst from impatience. Her feet carried her further into the room.

"Good morning, my lord." A curtsey. Her trembling legs remembered the practice well enough, her knees bending against her skirts.

"Good morning, Miss Swann." He glanced up then and she saw it. Worry? Yes, he was worried. About what she wondered, or rather, about whom?

Mrs. Prior.

Perhaps. But Elizabeth did not think he cared enough for her or anyone else for that matter. Either way, he looked a sorry business in the dim dawn light.

"You told the guard you wished to speak with me." He leaned back in his chair.

"I lied."

"Did you now?"

"You are not going to ask why?" She rolled back her shoulders, hoping to remind him that she wasn't so subservient yet. But Beckett only shrugged gracefully and lapsed into silence.

Elizabeth felt her temper quickening, pulsing in unison with her heart.

"And how is Mrs. Prior?" she asked.

Beckett put down his teacup, the spoon falling onto the saucer with a soft, metallic clang. "Do you truly care?" he replied, "or are you simply another victim of those fantastical creatures we like to call polite society and good breeding?"

Elizabeth shrugged, the sleeves of her shortgown rustling. "I'm curious. Is she dead yet?"

For a moment, Beckett's eyes were lit with careful appreciation. "I don't know, I haven't heard. But as I have not heard, I assume she is still alive. The servants would come running to tell me. They're rather finicky about having corpses lying about."

His morbid humor struck a terrifying cord against Elizabeth's heart. She looked out the window behind him. A feeble shaft of sunlight tumbled down from the clouds, warming the rain.

"But either way, she is of little use to me." Beckett surveyed her, his plump lips pressed together. Elizabeth inhaled and slowly, regained her composure.

"Pity. What did you have planned for her today? More senseless assassinations? A trip to the slums?"

Beckett laughed quietly. "She misses London, hates the hovels here. Your father's little kingdom is not at all to her liking."

"Because it is decent."

"Because she can be seen." Beckett gestured at an empty chair by his elbow. "You intend to sit, I assume?"

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "If that is what his lordship wishes," she said, mocking both him and herself in the same, tense breath.

"I am ever your humble servant, madam." He stood, his shoulders and head inclined in a haughty bow. Elizabeth gathered her cream-colored skirts and threw herself in the chair. It jolted, clawed feet digging into the wide floorboards. Beckett sat.

"Tea?"

"Yes." But she served herself. Beckett brought his own teacup to his smiling lips.

"Why have you come here, Miss Swann?"

"Certainly not to negotiate," she said, the last word sticking in her throat. Elizabeth felt as though she were choking and took a gulp of burning tea.

"Then I am disappointed."

"Really? I should have thought otherwise." Elizabeth ran her fingertips over the linen tablecloth. It felt smooth, pleasantly cool beneath her skin and she found she missed fine things. Lord Beckett's fingers arched over his spoon.

"Why have you come here, Miss Swann?"

"I don't know," she lied. "Perhaps I am confused."

The sun fell behind the clouds once more and Elizabeth felt the chilly spray of rain kiss her cheeks. Lord Beckett rose and walked to the shutters.

"I see no reason for confusion."

"I do." Elizabeth drained her teacup. "It is you, my lord."

The shutters clicked closed. Beckett leaned against them. Silence draped over the room.

"When were you last in London, Miss Swann?" he asked at length, half-turning. Elizabeth shifted in her chair. Certainly her plan, her feminine charm had not corrupted his mind already. And strangely, her own heart leapt, bounded against her ribcage and left her feeling feeble.

"My lord?" She couldn't remember the question.

"London, Miss Swann."

Elizabeth stared at her hands, folded tightly over her lap. London? She remembered London, the gray, indistinct blur that it was. Men, women, children. The streets seemed fit to burst. The jingle of harness. Cockney cries. Her father's warm hand pressed against hers.

"_Come along, Elizabeth."_

She had her mother's doll, not that she was at all delighted by the frozen face, the blank eyes. But it had been her mother's and now her living cheek pressed against porcelain. She could remember….

"Eleven years."

Beckett was back in his chair and he lifted the lid of the tea pot. At once, the aroma spiced the air, driving away the clinging moisture, the heady odor of rain.

"You were too young then, too young to miss it now."

"Do you, my lord?" Elizabeth watched as he replenished her cup and dropped another sugar cube in.

"Yes."

"But not for the same reasons as Mrs. Prior, I suspect."

"A grand assumption that is." Beckett let his hands fall over the arms of his chair, his languid fingers dangling like icicles over the striking yet frivolous carvings. "You think that we have nothing in common?"

"I fear such." Elizabeth ignored her tea now. A new warmth arose in her stomach and she suddenly found it hard to look at Lord Beckett. He did have a certain _elegance _about him unlike Will and even Norrington. She had never thought of a man as pretty before, but he was and still so very masculine. With eager eyes she studied the brocade pattern on his coat sleeve. It was of flowers, entwined flowers.

Beckett laughed and the sound returned her to the world, the living earth and the rain that now battered the shutters.

"Mrs. Prior and I _are _similar in some small ways, but quite different in others. She is…damaged. Much ill has been done to her and much ill she has done to herself. I do not think she will ever be well."

"Then would you care if she did die?" Elizabeth asked.

Beckett did not answer. A knock on the door saved him and Elizabeth noted his relief. She saw it in his eyes, yes, she was getting rather good at reading his eyes. They widened slightly as he stood, a short sigh dancing past his lips.

"Enter."

Polly let herself into the study. She shut the door and curtsied once, patting her mobcap into place. Elizabeth frowned. The maid obviously hadn't slept and she looked harried. Her hands twisted in her apron.

"It's Mrs. Prior, my lord," she said in a meek, but pained voice.

Beckett raised a brow. "Oh?"

"She's…she's been ill all night. A fever, I think. It's left her senseless. Weeping for her dead husband and daughter. Can't you send for the surgeon, my lord? It's become a disturbance, a distraction. The servants can't care for her, my lord."

"The surgeon?" Beckett had a distinctly ruffled appearance, his neck arched indignantly. Polly seemed to sense at once that her cause was lost. Her hands fell against her apron, her shoulders bowed under the yoke of her futile position. Beckett smiled crookedly.

"I will not send for the surgeon. Ignore Mrs. Prior."

"But my lord." Polly could not stop herself. Elizabeth saw her take a trembling step forward. "She's frightfully ill, my lord, deathly ill."

Beckett's smile twisted into a frown and deep, worried lines framed his lips. "Leave her be."

His voice was soft, gentle even, but dangerous. Elizabeth's skin prickled, the tiny, fine hairs on her arms standing on end. She felt as though the shutters were still open and rain spilled in across her back.

Polly somehow managed a curtsey. "Yes, my lord."

The door closed behind her. Beckett sat and dropped his hands into his lap, looking vexed. Elizabeth stared at him, unable to look away. Was there concern in his eyes? Did worry twine about his thoughts? She imagined Mrs. Prior, more dead than alive, in some tight, cramped bed with the dark-faced servants ignoring her pleas for help. Did the fires of Hell already torment her?

Lord Beckett cleared his throat suddenly and turned back to his tea.

"I think the more apt question, Miss Swann, is do you care if she dies?" he said. "She didn't care about your father, I should say."

Elizabeth felt her resolve unravel, the thread of her composure pulled taut until it snapped. She stood, threw back the table and was pleased when two of his fine teacups smashed on the floor. The shattered porcelain greatly resembled a gray storm cloud and the jagged edges nipped at her ankles.

"You wish to provoke me?" she asked, her voice seething, boiling as rage bubbled in her blood.

Beckett turned in his chair, one hand perched on his hip, his elbow protruding at a jaunty angle. "I wish to test you," he said.

That frightened Elizabeth. Her soul trembled, shuddering beneath some inescapable wave of darkness.

So much for seduction….

She fled the chamber, terrified, enraged and the guard caught her arm by the door.

"You are a flighty girl," he said, ushering her back down the hall. "What with all your comings and goings."

Elizabeth wrenched her arm from his grasp, backing into her chamber like some maddened lioness. And for the first time in her life, she felt immortal, invincible, unstoppable. She would win this battle yet.

"You may tell his lordship," she spat as the guard closed the door in her face, "that I hope Mrs. Prior dies. And if the fever does not kill her outright, I certainly will!"

* * *

Beckett glanced down at the shattered teacups on his study floor.

Disgraceful.

The Swann girl was indeed wild, uncontrollable, so like Camilla, yet different. He touched one fractured rim with the toe of his boot.

Camilla had never broken his finery or furniture. No, she had turned her rage inward and let it break her.

Beckett stood, rounded the table and threw open the shutters. Rain poured in and he felt strangely relieved. He let his brow become damp, wet with humid Caribbean kisses.

He was, perhaps, making some progress, though not nearly enough.

And then he remembered his lessons to Camilla. Restraint. It was he who had abandoned control today. He should have corrected Miss Swann's knowledge, informed her that her father was in fact alive. But some sordid part of him wanted to see her angry, angry with _him_.

It thrilled him.

Ah, he had a fine mess on his hands now. No compass, no distant hope of the chest. And now he had an ill Mrs. Prior to contend with and Miss Swann, who seemed to linger on the edge of his dominance, but shied away all too easily.

What was he to do?

Another cup of tea seemed in order and he wanted to have a chat with dear Mrs. Prior as well. Dying, humph, she certainly wasn't dying. Not yet, anyway. He needed her still.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter eleven of "Delicacy". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta**, **Scarlet Snidget**, and **Ladybug21**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Eleven**

Mrs. Prior tried not to sleep that night, for what rest she had was tormented and John came oft to her, his neck still bruised from her hands. He would sit in the corner, his long legs crossed, knees bent, large hands thrown carelessly over his lap.

"I don't understand. Why, Camilla?"

She wished to answer him but her voice had shriveled inside her and there was no reason to be had from madness. John never tired of asking her though and his own confident, cool voice stoked the fires of her fever.

"Why, Camilla?"

"I don't know John." An answer crawled from her throat at last. Her teeth chattered.

"Why, Camilla?" Her dear, dead husband wasn't satisfied. He stayed, sitting in the cramped corner of the servant's quarters, longs crossed, knees bent, once gentle hands cradled in his lap. "Why, Camilla?"

"I can't say, John."

And she turned away from him and his silken brown eyes. Betty's eyes. The servants were standing in the doorway, whispering, laughing, talking, talking about her. Mrs. Prior hated to be talked about. It made her so very angry and fearful and had she the strength, she would throttle them all. But oh, she was tired now and the world was a foreign thing, a place she had belonged to only briefly before being snatched away by eager demons. The fire scorched her flesh.

"Dying," someone said and then all the servants were chanting her dirge.

"Won't last till the morn," another crowed.

"Dying, dying, dying."

Mrs. Prior laughed at them, her chest heaving and pushing against the immeasurable weight of the illness. She wasn't dying, not yet, though she might as well be a corpse. Her bones ached and her blood curdled. The infection had spread.

Sometime around dawn a soft rain fell. The servants had been good enough to leave the windows open throughout the night. Mrs. Prior welcomed the sky's tears, let them quench her thirst and sizzle on her sweaty skin. The fever dulled, receding in waves of blackness within her where it would lay in wait, coiled, ready to strike again. The servants were gone, scurrying about their duties like mindless field mice. She could rest now, rest without their chanting and John's incessant questioning.

Sleep dusted her heavy eyelids and made her weak once more. Fog was dancing in through the window…London fog and God, the streets stank.

_John Prior was a good man. Not a smart man, not a wealthy man, not a handsome man. But he was a good man and once upon a happy time that had been quite enough for Camilla Prior, enough to win her love. _

_Yet in the haunted hovels, in the slums that mocked the opulence of London's better half, Camilla Prior forgot why she loved John Prior, though he never forgot her._

_It was easy to forget when he came in smelling of the streets only to tell her that he hadn't found work and they would have to let their guts rot on emptiness. It was easy to forget when he sold the table and chairs that had been a wedding present for money to keep their room just a day longer. And it was easy to forget when he came home one Christmas Eve, drunk and full of memories._

_John Prior was a good man. Not a smart man, not a wealthy man, not a handsome man and not a drunk. But he had chosen one night, one Christmas Eve to swallow his sorrows along with a pint of ale and so did die because of it._

_Camilla did not look up when he came in, she never did anymore. There were rags on her lap, not swatches of silk and she had been trying to sew together a blanket. It was snowing out, meager, gray flakes that fell through the clouds and only stained the streets with more filth. John shut the door and stumbled over to the hearth where he began to weep. And still Camilla did not look up._

_She missed the touch of linen, she found, along with silk and taffeta and feathers. She missed taking orders for ladies of the court and watching elegant gowns take shape beneath her own nimble fingers. And she missed little Betty, who would sit at her feet and pick up the scrapes of cloth to decorate her doll with. When Camilla had the time she used to sew little dresses for the doll, pretty little things with frills and ruffles. Betty would play for hours then, happy, at her mother's feet._

_But those days were gone and she and John were closer to dying now and Betty was already dead. She would never touch linen or silk or taffeta again._

_John untied his greasy neckerchief, another rag and wiped his eyes._

"_Camilla, I could not find work."_

_She glanced at him for only a minute. "You never do." _

"_I'm sorry."_

"_You always are."_

_He did not speak for awhile, but wept. Camilla abandoned the rags on her lap and stared at him._

_John Prior was a tall man, a strong man with a thick neck and skin tarnished like an old bronze statue. The soot and sun had done that too him and his hair was black with grime now, not brown. Camilla couldn't ever remember loving the man, though some small voice told her she did._

"_Camilla." He noticed her eyes on him and like a penitent sinner, fell to his knees. He tried to kiss her, tried to weave his arms about her, slip his hands beneath her dirty shortgown. But she would not have him._

"_Get up, John."_

"_Camilla, please."_

"_Don't touch me, John." _

"_Camilla, I love you."_

"_I hate you, John." _

_He recoiled then, the brightness of the fire lapping up his long shadow. His lips parted, a tense, tormented breath spilling past them. And then he spoke and so lost his life._

"_You knocked over the candle, Camilla."_

_She bristled, every fiber of her being, every nerve set ablaze with rage. But she controlled it yet, pushed it away._

"_You fell asleep and knocked over the candle, Camilla. You set the house on fire."_

"_John!" She rose, but he did not stop._

"_And Betty died because of it."_

_Camilla reached for him, pressed his head against her womb where their child had grown, their child who now lay dead in some unforgiving graveyard. She thought to smother him then and there, squeeze the life from his lungs. But John was sobbing and some small voice reminded her that she loved him._

"_Go to bed, John," she said softly. He complied, standing on his shaky legs with the firelight flickering behind him._

"_I'm sorry, I-"_

"_Go to bed, John." And she even kissed him, promised him that all was well and told him she would join him soon. John crossed the small room and collapsed onto their bed. He did not bother to remove his shoes. _

_Camilla waited for a time, waited until he had fallen asleep and could tuck away the rancid rags that had once been their blanket. _

"_John?" He did not stir when she called to him. "John?" She straddled his waist, felt him breathe and sigh beneath her. He slept peacefully, did not feel her hands fall around his neck. And he only cried once, gulping for air as she strangled him and watched the panicked, painful tears spring from his eyes._

_John Prior was a good man. Not a smart man, not a wealthy man, not a handsome man. But when the landlord found his corpse three days later, he called for the evening watchmen and they concluded it hadn't been murder. There was an empty bottle of ale in his pocket and John Prior most likely drank himself to death. His body went to a pauper's grave, unlamented, save for his wife who had disappeared into night never to be seen again, except for those who knew to look in the shadows. _

The rain ceased, only to be replaced by a flood. Mrs. Prior was convinced that God had descended from the clouds to drown the world again. The water hit her square in the face and she sprang up, sputtering. Polly the maid stood by the door, washing bucket in hand.

"You're needed, ma'am."

There was something disgusting about her voice. Mrs. Prior reached for her handkerchief to wipe her face dry.

"What?"

"It's morning, ma'am and Lord Beckett wants you."

"The surgeon." And for the first time in a long while, Mrs. Prior felt blessed relief. Dear Lord Beckett, he had not abandoned her after all. The surgeon, the goodly doctor would come and tend to her throbbing hand. The fever would be chased away, her body purged and bled and she would be well. And despite the sickness, Mrs. Prior smiled. "The surgeon has come?"

"No, ma'am."

Her shock was softened by the fever which numbed most of her nerves. "I don't-"

"Lord Beckett wants you in his study. Now."

"But I cannot stand." It was painful admitting such and Mrs. Prior swallowed her pride. Polly set down her bucket with a frozen frown.

"Then crawl, ma'am."

Insolence, that she had not expected. Annoyance, maybe, but not insolence. And just to prove herself, Mrs. Prior stood. Polly seemed only faintly surprised.

"I will go."

"You had better hurry."

The door was held open for her and as Mrs. Prior stepped out into the yard, she began to remember herself. It was late morning, yes and she had dozed, her mind finally slumbering after a night of torment. Lord Beckett had cast her from the house the night before because she had wept. Emotion. Lord Beckett disliked emotion and so did Mrs. Prior. John didn't, however. He smiled and laughed and cried as he pleased. But John was dead and she had no reason to smile or laugh or cry anymore.

Polly did not follow her into the house, but rather stayed by the servant's quarters, her small form stark against the red brick walls. Mrs. Prior ignored her, pretended she was naught but a gutter rat that ran over one's toes late at night. Little harm could befall her now, anyway.

* * *

Dear God, she was dying. Beckett struggled to slip his indifferent mask into place when Mrs. Prior stepped into his study, but his heart stilled for a beat, causing a noxious wave of nausea to sweep over him. Camilla, his little murderess, his black widow, was dying and she came before him with tired eyes that screamed of pain and unyielding agony. He almost felt sorry for her.

She stood in the shadow of the door for some time before her legs gave way and Beckett gave her leave to sit. He had never seen a more dejected and wretched creature and wondered to himself if Hell was reserved for those still living. Mrs. Prior sat with her head rested against the high back of the chair, her eyes rolling over the broken shards of porcelain on the floor, the remnants of Miss Swann's rage.

"My lord?" Her voice was tiny, frightened and that unnerved Beckett. Her pale skin crawled with fever.

"Mrs. Prior." He swallowed away the rising lump in his throat. "You are late."

No sympathy. None. If she died, she died. Beckett did not care, so long as he extracted the last ounce of strength from the wearied workhorse. He would not waste his time beating the corpse, though.

"I'm sorry, my lord." Waxy lips parted, gasped. Her breathing was ragged and he was reminded of nights spent in sin with her. Hmm, perhaps it would best if she left him. Mistakes might be covered up then, cast away with her into some forgotten grave. But Beckett was getting ahead of himself. There was business that needed seeing to.

"Do you remember our discussion?"

"My lord?"

He paced around her, boots resounding on the great wooden floorboards. "Last night, Mrs. Prior, pay attention."

"Vaguely, my lord. I can recall but a shadow of it."

"Shadows will do. I am frustrated Mrs. Prior, so very frustrated. What are you going to do?"

"Me, my lord?"

It had stopped raining, but now the sky thundered and the vengeful pagan gods were shifting in their clouds, ready to strike down the earth that had so readily forgotten them. Beckett left the shutters open and watched the sea boil and churn. Foam caressed the green rocks clustered about the shore.

"Yes, _you_, Mrs. Prior. What are _you _going to do?"

She sighed, her shoulders jerking in an involuntary motion, eyes closed. Her mind decayed with fever. "I don't know, my lord, I'm sickly."

Beckett stopped, feeling as though he stood on the edge of some great precipice and eternity dangled beneath him. He was close, so very close and here she sat mocking him.

"Is that an excuse?"

"No, my lord, but the only answer I have."

She was a different creature than the one from last night, the being that had cowered in his hall. The woman who sat before him was destroyed, broken, shattered. No glimmer of hope flickered amongst the flames devouring her body. And he in turn felt hopeless.

"Must I do everything for you, Mrs. Prior?" Anger throbbed within him and he did not know why. "Are you so very mindless?"

"I don't know, my lord."

The game was over. She wasn't even trying now. Disgusted, Beckett wheeled about and sat across from her.

"I am sending you away."

Mrs. Prior seemed to come to then, her crimson-streaked eyes snapping open. "Where, my lord?" A tremor infected her voice.

"Away, to Tortuga. If you insist on being a wretch, then I shall treat you like one."

"Tortuga, my lord?"

"A barbarian place, a pirate port. You'll feel quite at home, I expect." The sky spilt open and rain lashed Port Royal. Beckett felt the spray of it on his back. "If you cannot bring me news, if you can do nothing but skulk around the streets in the dark then I will put you to use. You are going to Tortuga and you will find me something I need."

"You are sending me away, my lord?" she asked stupidly.

"Yes, Mrs. Prior." He wasn't patient and let it be known, his shoulders tensing, hands braced on his knees. "If you cannot gather news here, you will gather news there. You will do your job. Bring me something I have need of. Oh and, try not to kill anyone."

"You'll cut off my head," she whimpered. The metaphor was not lost on him. He knew she might not return.

"You leave in two days"

Mrs. Prior burst into miserable tears and Beckett found that he was all the more glad to be rid of her. He had Elizabeth Swann just down the hall, anyway and even now she bowed to his will, bending and molding like melted gold. But Mrs. Prior was useless, unless she managed to prove herself once more.

That didn't seem quite likely, however.

He stood, made to dismiss her, but she latched onto him, a sweaty hand squeezing the life out of his.

"Will you give me a kiss, my lord?"

A question. Servant's weren't meant to question their king. She never asked, but he always took.

He did not have time to answer. Mrs. Prior pressed her lips to his palm and Beckett felt heat swoop into his stomach and spread speedily through his body. He knew the answer to Elizabeth Swann's question then, he knew that he would care if she died.

And she must leave him now because of it.

"Get out."

She obeyed him, misery following her out into the corridor and down the stairs. He heard her weeping as she walked, suppressed sobs that made the house shake. And he was trembling himself, but she did not see.

No, she must never see.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter twelve of "Delicacy". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **Pirate fan, cazonetta**, **Scarlet Snidget**, and **Ladybug21**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Twelve**

Elizabeth did not expect another evening invitation form Lord Beckett and was quite shocked when the guard came and knocked on her door. She rose and called through the keyhole.

"Come in."

The guard unlocked the door and stuck his head in, his flesh looking pasty in the yellow light that shone forth from the single candle in her chamber.

"Good evening, miss."

Elizabeth only nodded.

"Lord Beckett requests your presence." The guard licked his lips. "Will you join him for dinner?"

Elizabeth raised a brow. Apparently, his lordship was eager for another encounter and not the least bit cowed by her rage. Well, she certainly would not deny him another chance to join battle.

"Very well. Give me a moment."

The guard shut the door and Elizabeth dressed quickly. Her fingers trembled as she laced up the front of her short gown.

Why?

She certainly wasn't impatient to meet with Lord Beckett. No, rather she wished to test her ability, to see if she had impressed her charms upon him and thus would win her freedom or at the very least, have her revenge.

Elizabeth extinguished the candle and left the cooling wax dripping upon the bronze holder. The door to her chamber had been left unlocked.

The corridor was dark as it had been the night before, a deadly dark that toyed with memories and fantasies and conjured remote horrors from shadows. Elizabeth smoothed the front of her skirt and tried to make out the head of the staircase to her left. Where was the guard?

The candles had not yet been lit and sconces sat as silver ghosts on the walls. Sweat moistened her brow and palms and Elizabeth suddenly felt unnerved…and alone.

"Hello?" Her voice was but an echo, leaking timidly past her lips. "Is anyone there?" She felt like a child, a lost little girl with no notion of herself. "Hello?"

Silence mocked her, teased her. And then she heard it, an equally meek whisper that froze her blood.

"Run."

Elizabeth gripped the doorjamb. Her knuckles whitened.

"Run."

She dare not move, did not breathe, lest the predator should spot her and sink jagged teeth into her neck. Spill blood and stain the corridor a darker shade of black.

"Run."

"Mrs. Prior?" The name erupted from within her. Feet shuffled, cloth rippled.

"Run away, child."

"Where is the guard?" Elizabeth began to retreat inside her chamber but then remembered herself. She had battled greater horrors than this, had stood face-to-face with the undead. Why should a mere mortal woman frighten her?

"Never mind that." A harried note jumped into Mrs. Prior's voice and she stepped forward, revealing the outline of her pale, pointed face. "No time for questions. Run, run away child."

She was panting, her entire frame rising and falling beneath short, tortured gasps. Elizabeth realized she had the advantage and ventured back out into the corridor.

"Run where?" she asked.

Mrs. Prior snorted like an agitated horse. "Away, get away from here. Don't you understand, girl? I'm telling you to run!" One arm reached out and skeletal fingers pointed to the descending stairs.

Elizabeth stared at the wraith of a woman and felt a good deal braver. Mrs. Prior didn't look strong, really, now that she was ill and more of a corpse than anything else.

"Did Lord Beckett tell you such?"

Mrs. Prior hissed and recoiled. Her arms wrapped about her waist. "No, no, no." And she moaned softly.

Elizabeth wondered if the creature was a ghost, an unearthly herald sent to warn her. The Romans had made much of dreams and omens, after all. She recalled her father's tales of Caesar, a man who had conquered the world and did not listen to his wife's pleas as he headed for the Senate one March morning. But Elizabeth was sensible, a rational girl with a quick mind that had been tutored with scholarly works, not superstition. And to settle her suspicions, she reached forward and brushed Mrs. Prior's chin with her hand. The flesh was warm, sweaty, not claylike or dead.

"Why am I to run?" she asked and her voice stiffened with determination.

Mrs. Prior coughed and her head whipped about on her neck, bulging eyes glancing down the long corridor that lay before them. "Him, it's him. Understand this, girl. He'll be the death of you, the end. He's killed me you see, cut off my head and laid it at my feet and I am forsaken. Run _now_, girl. Save yourself and for God's sake, save me, _please_."

"Save you?" Elizabeth had no desire to keep Mrs. Prior in conversation, but she did enjoy taunting her. The woman was responsible for her father's death and if any person under God deserved such torment, it was her. "How can I save you?"

"Maybe you can't." Mrs. Prior lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. "But still, you can run, be free, go home to your handsome lad."

Elizabeth felt venom thaw her blood. Did Mrs. Prior dare to speak of Will? No, that was her one right, her one and only right.

"I can never go home, Mrs. Prior," she said. "And I will not save you. In fact, I have half a mind to call Lord Beckett and tell him that you are vexing me. What do you think he will say, Mrs. Prior? Will he put you out again? I suspect you are not welcome here anymore."

And she made to walk her way, lifting her skirts with the same haughty air she had enjoyed whilst still a governor's daughter, a lady.

"No!"

Two cold hands, things of ice and frozen flesh closed around Elizabeth's arm, captured her and dragged back into the dark.

"No! You must run, you must leave him, please, he is all I have." Mrs. Prior was shivering and crying all at once, her hair falling across Elizabeth's face like a lash. But Elizabeth would not stand for hysterics nor did she wish to be dragged and jerked and pulled about like some mindless creature. She was not Mrs. Prior, after all.

"Release me at once," she growled. "Or I shall surely send for Lord Beckett and then no one will save you."

Mrs. Prior gasped as Elizabeth's hand shot out and pummeled her gut. She doubled over, grabbing at her stomach and falling against the wall with a thud that the darkness repressed.

"Please," she wept. "I am giving you a chance. Run. Do it for your father."

Something shattered within Elizabeth. Her restraint vanished, fluttering away on black wings into the night that would surely smother them all. A great weight fell from her shoulders and she stood straight, tall.

"How dare you?" she demanded in a voice that was not her own, but the pulse of some pagan sea goddess reborn. "Do you not shudder to bring down such destruction, such violence upon yourself by mentioning my father? I am not a madwoman, Camilla. I am not you. But if you speak his name again, if you even think to sully his honor with your unworthy lips, I will extract my revenge and I will not be sorry. No, once I thought to pity you, but no more. You deserve nothing."

Elizabeth expected her to fight, to miraculously regain her strength and join the battle once more. But Mrs. Prior was defeated and she sank down to the floor, arms reaching over her knees, head bowed in submission.

"I tried," she whispered. "Do not say I did not try, Miss Swann, for I did. It is over now."

And she said no more, but at length picked herself up and retreated. Elizabeth watched her go but was not relieved at her departure. Mrs. Prior would have killed her had she tried to run from the house and it was undoubtedly a trap set to catch in her in an inescapable web. Freedom had tempted her and she had fought it. Perhaps she still had her wits about her. But something remained, something indefinable yet undeniable. She could not help but think that Mrs. Prior was right.

The corridor sat silent about her and a storm-sent wind clawed at the house. Down the hall Lord Beckett sat and yet he seemed so very far away. Elizabeth walked to the head of the stairs, one hand grazing the banister and caressing the carved wood.

Should she run? Should she take such a great chance and flee?

Temptation warred with logic and either way, she was damned. Mrs. Prior might be standing at the foot of the stairs, hands ready to throttle the life out of her. And yet Lord Beckett sat awash in his arrogance, his opulence, awaiting her. Elizabeth could trust neither and she found now that she could not trust herself.

She shut her eyes for an instant. With a strangled sigh, she turned and walked down the corridor.

Freedom could not be risked just now, especially when it was borne to her by Mrs. Prior.

Her footsteps were jerky as she walked and panic bloomed between her ribs, sending waves of horror careening against her heart. Elizabeth hated to have her back exposed and more than once, she glanced over her shoulder. Keen, cat-like eyes studied the waves of the ebony but found naught but cold air. It was not warm where the sun failed to shine and she felt she was no longer in the Caribbean, that same bright place that had birthed her love for Will and so many other happy things.

But she could see the sun again, see the dawn rise on it's blushing throne…if only she listened to Mrs. Prior.

_Run. Run. Run._

Her fingers ached and she flexed them. Another unhappy wind fell against the house.

_Run. Run. Run._

She could not trust her instincts, could not trust what would lead her to ruin, to death. James Norrington had wed her to logic and Will had taught her to abandon it. But Elizabeth did not remember her lessons, not when she was a prisoner of Lord Beckett.

"Mrs. Prior?" Hesitation made her voice thin.

There was no answer.

"Mrs. Prior?" She called again, hoping that if she met with silence alone, perhaps she could abandon reason and _run,_ run down to the sea.

A mournful creak shredded her ears and Elizabeth leapt into the air, her silken skirts settling about her like light wings. Lord Beckett was standing in the amber shadow of his study and eager firelight dripped into the corridor. And then Elizabeth knew that she had forsaken her one opportunity, her one chance.

Mrs. Prior had been right.

"I thought you intended to join me for dinner." Beckett reached out a pale, languid hand and grasped her wrist. She shuddered.

"I did, my lord."

"Then why do you linger? Where is the guard?" He glanced over her shoulder, eyes shrewd and narrow.

"I do not know, my lord." Elizabeth swallowed away the tremor in her voice. "He knocked upon my door and was gone."

"Did he now?" Concern aged Lord Beckett's face and stole away his boyish bearing. "How very peculiar."

Elizabeth felt the pressure of his thumb against her wrist and her blood pulsed against it. She expected him to question her further or to ask after things she had no notion of. But instead, he pulled her closer, wrestled her into a tight embrace that left her breathless.

"You ought to come inside," he said. "Come with me."

"No!" She revolted against him, freeing one arm and half her torso.

And to her utter shock, Beckett loosened his grip. "Very well," he muttered, an arm still draped about her waist. "But you must tell me, why not?"

Her mind was clogged with fear and now Elizabeth lamented her squandered chance. She could have dashed down the stairs to safety and even if death lay in wait, it was certainly better than sin.

"I don't know," she babbled, panic barring her from reason. She flailed and fought against him. But Lord Beckett only laughed.

"What's happened to your bravery, Miss Swann?"

"I…let me go!"

"Are you frightened?"

"Leave me go!"

"There is nothing to be frightened of." He dipped his face closer, nestled his chin against her neck and sent tingling tremors down her spine with every breath he took. "You won't be harmed."

Elizabeth twisted her head in vain, struggled to pull away from him. "But you hurt Mrs. Prior."

His grip tightened and long fingers nestled in the flesh about her hips. "She deserved to be hurt, Miss Swann," he said in a soft voice. "Certainly you cannot disagree with me on that."

And then he kissed her and she could not escape his blood red lips that burned like brands. Thoughts of Will fluttered past her wide eyes, Will alone on some silver sand bar with only the cold company of the moon.

"I will not leave you go, Miss Swann," Lord Beckett said as soon as he had broken the kiss. "Not when you are all that is left to me."

Elizabeth would have renewed her fight, but she was too drained. She leaned against Lord Beckett and remembered only faintly her attempts at seduction. How wrong she had been, how very wrong.

He had been seducing her.

"Will you join me, Miss Swann?" It was not a question. Lord Beckett held open the study door for her and the light blinded her eyes. She could not see.

"I suppose," she muttered and let bewilderment carry her away. The door was locked behind them.

* * *

_It is said that Julius Caesar's wife dreamed of his death the night before his assassination and begged him not to go to the Senate. Caesar, of course, ignored her warnings. _


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter thirteen of "Delicacy". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **PearlSparrow13**, **Scarlet Snidget**, **Olivegreeneyes** and **Ladybug21**. Thank you all so much, I truly appreciate your thoughtful feedback. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Has Mrs. Prior left yet?"

"No, my lord."

"Good, send her to me."

The silken voice stirred Elizabeth from the depths of a demonic sleep. She had dreamt things, horrid things laced by lies, betrayal and stain that would never wash away. But it was all just a dream, a nightmare, immaterial. Elizabeth rolled over and clutched the blankets closer to her naked body.

A quill pen scratched across a sheet of parchment. The noise was irritating, a fly circling about her head and buzzing in her ear. She cracked open a bloodshot eye and searched for the source.

Lord Beckett was seated by his writing desk and after a moment, he acknowledged her with a nod.

Elizabeth started up, expecting to feel fear or shame or rage when she remembered the wicked things she had done, the sins she had willingly committed with a fiend. But she felt nothing, only emptiness. And the night before was a dream, a nightmare, immaterial.

It could not have happened.

The ache that racked her body protested her denial. Memories surfaced, treacherous memories that reminded her of kisses and pleasure and pain.

Elizabeth was overwhelmed.

It could not have happened.

She could not remember. What was the day? The year? And how had she come to this place?

Confusion threatened to smother her.

_Mrs. Prior at the head of the stairs, pleading with her. Beckett waiting down the hall. A fly snared by the spider's web, a fox drowned in it's own den. _

But Elizabeth did not want to think now. No, it hurt. She wanted to rest and enjoy for the first time in her life, the absolute numbness that trapped her soul.

Lord Beckett continued on with his writing and only stopped when a knock sounded on the door.

Elizabeth snatched up the blankets. The door opened, slowly, timidly and a weary face dipped inside the chamber.

"My lord?"

The voice sent scattered chills up Elizabeth's spine. Mrs. Prior closed the door behind her and leaned upon it, shaking. Her legs threatened to buckle and it was only with great difficulty that she managed to stand, her hand gripping the bronze doorknob.

"Ah, Camilla, good morning." Beckett did not rise when she entered, but remained seated at his table, dressing gown falling upon in a delicately dashing manner. His shirt was snow white, unblemished.

"You sent for me, my lord," Mrs. Prior said and her eyes remained on Beckett alone. She did not notice Elizabeth.

"Yes, I did. Do you know why?"

Mrs. Prior seemed to deflate under the question and her shoulders sagged. "I don't know, my lord, I never know."

"Hmm." Beckett tilted his head to side, towards Elizabeth but still Mrs. Prior did not glance at the bed. Her eyes were glassy, pools of pain and wretchedness. And she could only look at Lord Beckett with that same desperate longing, that same dreadful hope that was founded upon sand and so would sink into nothingness.

"I don't know, my lord," she repeated.

Beckett sighed and tapped his fingers on the table, a hollow, empty rhythm that made Elizabeth's skin prickle.

"Well, I do." Beckett smiled at Mrs. Prior and his smile was a vicious, feral thing.

Mrs. Prior exhaled shakily.

"I was thinking last night, Camilla, when the hours were darkest and it rained."

"Yes, my lord."

"I was thinking of you and how you came to be as you are."

Mrs. Prior shut her eyes for an instant and Elizabeth thought she saw a tear slide from underneath her blue-tinged lids.

"Please, my lord."

Elizabeth stiffened. She had heard those words before. They had echoed in her ears the night before.

"Oh?" Beckett's voice rose, jumped a note higher and dripped with irony. "You don't want to hear the tale again? Why not? Well, I know it isn't pleasant, but it's your life, Camilla. Certainly you do not fear it?"

"Please, my lord."

"Very well." Beckett stood and continued to tap his fingers tersely upon the tabletop. "If you won't hear it, than I shall tell it to someone else. Hmm, Elizabeth." And then he turned around to face the bed. Elizabeth wished she could hide, but Mrs. Prior spotted her first and the pure devastation on her face was enough to fill her nightmares for decades.

She said nothing though, her waxy lips pressed together, hand still fastened over the doorknob.

"It's a simple tale," Beckett continued, not missing a beat, his voice sounding utterly boyish and brutish at the same time. "Rather morbid, though, not for the faint of heart. Though I think Miss Swann can stand to hear it, she deserves to hear it and I do so wish to settle her curiosity."

Elizabeth wanted to speak, to protest…for Mrs. Prior's sake. Her shame was naught compared to the utter grief that ravaged the poor creature. Yes poor. She pitied Mrs. Prior in a way.

"Well, it begins some years ago, yes once upon a time." Beckett turned away from the bed and glanced quickly at Mrs. Prior. "I am certain, Miss Swann, that you know Mrs. Prior was married, widowed now, but married once. And she was happily married. What was his name again, Camilla?"

Mrs. Prior shuddered, the veins in her neck bulging as she swallowed away sobs. "John Prior, my lord."

"Yes, John Prior." Beckett scratched his chin. "And from what I've heard, he wasn't a terribly intelligent fellow, but strong, well built. But that mattered not, for Mrs. Prior was a seamstress of some repute and together they lived in London with their little daughter. Her name, I believe, was Elizabeth."

"Betty," Mrs. Prior interrupted.

Beckett glanced at her over his silk-clad shoulder.

"Her name was Betty, my lord."

Elizabeth wrapped her hands over her knees. Something ill permeated from that name and it seemed like a cursed thing. She shivered at the very mention of it.

"Yes." Beckett's lips barely moved. "Betty. Well, on with it then. As it was, Miss Swann, I have reason to believe that Mrs. Prior was happy and perhaps not half as mad as she is now." He leaned against the foot of the bed but Elizabeth would not look at him. Beckett spoke as though Mrs. Prior were naught but a shade, a creature that was blind and deaf and dumb.

His shameless mockery was revolting.

Beckett raised his head, his back arching, hips poised in a triumphant stance. "I'm convinced things were quite pleasant for them, until the night Mrs. Prior fell asleep while sewing and knocked over a candle. The house caught fire. The husband escaped. The child was burned alive."

"Oh God!" Mrs. Prior shrieked. The sound bounced off the ashen walls and shattered Elizabeth's resolve. She wanted to weep.

Beckett simply laughed.

"I'm not quite sure what happened afterwards, Miss Swann," he continued. "But I do know she lost her business. And her poor husband, that poor, pitiful fool had to work his way through the slums. Isn't a wonder that he loved her, after all? I don't think she loved him-"

"Liar!" Mrs. Prior screamed until her words were ragged gasps. "Liar! I loved him!"

"Well, I don't see how that is possible." Beckett jerked about and for the very first time, looked at her with hurting human eyes. Jealousy hardened his face. "You killed him, throttled him in his sleep. That is not love, my dear, love is not betrayal."

"And you would know, my lord," she hiccupped. And then, face blazing with fever, she turned to Elizabeth. "Listen to me girl and I'll save you're life. You'll die here, girl. He's going to kill. He's killed me, my God, I'm dying, I'm dying and I never wanted to die. He'll kill you, girl. Run!"

Mrs. Prior's pleas were so ardent that Elizabeth started up out of bed, her feet landing on the sweaty floor with a thud. She wanted to run, wanted to flee…but Beckett stood before the door.

Snarling, he glared at Mrs. Prior. "Be quiet now, Camilla."

She obeyed, fingers crushed against her trembling chin.

Beckett took a deep breath and regained his easeful composure. "Sit back down, Miss Swann, I have yet to finish the story."

And Elizabeth herself obeyed, knowing that she had nowhere to run and like Mrs. Prior, would most certainly be better off dead.

"I met Mrs. Prior sometime after," he resumed, his voice measured and clipped and suited for some dainty parlor, "when she was employed by a tailor. One of her clients must have vexed her, he was a rival of mine, a company man, Lord Darby's son. She killed him, stalked him and strangled him. And I saw it. Yes, she was in my good graces then, but that was so many years ago. No more. No more."

Elizabeth fancied she recognized a mournful note in his voice and he seemed much smaller, standing there at the foot of the bed. She wondered what could possibly leave a man like him defeated.

A moment of dreadful silence blanketed the room and only Mrs. Prior had the courage to break it.

"Have you finished with me, my lord?" she asked, seeming beyond pain, beyond any reality.

"I have, Mrs. Prior and thank God for that."

"I leave tonight, my lord. Will you not bid me farewell?"

"Yes. Goodbye, Camilla. Should I expect to see you again?"

Mrs. Prior glanced at Beckett and her eyes became self-determined, cool and calm with a dignity Elizabeth had never noticed before.

"You will, my lord. I'm to do my job and return."

Beckett seemed shocked and his head snapped back.

"Goodbye, Camilla."

"Goodbye, Cutler." There was a sneer to her voice and she left the chamber with a final toss of her head.

Beckett sank onto the edge of the bed and for a long while, Elizabeth watched him. He did not move for a time and nor did she. The sun rose, dispersing clouds, Elizabeth saw a milky patch of blue lighten the sky. Her heart rose.

Beckett sighed at length, his fingers curled into tight fists on his lap. "It is better this way," he muttered.

* * *

Polly was sitting in the kitchen cleaning knives that evening when she heard the back gate snap close. Laughter followed, a shrill, keening shriek that made her whimper and wish she was elsewhere. Mrs. Prior stumbled into the kitchen. Polly gripped the edge of the table.

"Ma'am!"

"Oh hush, whore!"

Mrs. Prior was bleeding from the brow and black droplets of it fell upon the table. She panted like a hard pressed horse.

A ice cold stone dropped in Polly's stomach and, hastily, she shoved the knives back into their proper cupboard. She had never known Mrs. Prior to use knives though.

"What's the matter with you?" the wretched woman asked, looking ridiculous, reeling from side to side.

"You're bleeding, ma'am."

"I know you stupid, stupid wench of a girl."

Polly offered her a dirty dish rag but Mrs. Prior waved it away.

"I need no favors, no generosity," she spat and for a moment, managed to hold herself still.

Polly watched her with silent awe, the only sound echoing forth from the hearth where a low fire nibbled at moldy logs. She thought of calling for the guard, little help that he was. Lord Beckett didn't want Mrs. Prior about anymore. Why, he had come downstairs that very morning and said to keep her out of the house, make sure she boarded her ship to Tortuga or whatever hellhole he had banished her too. But Polly was just the kitchen maid and she couldn't-daren't-contend with a madwoman.

Suddenly, Mrs. Prior's knees gave way and she tumbled into the table, jerky shadows mimicking her trembling limbs. Polly huddled against the warm wall.

"Ma'am, please-"

"No," Mrs. Prior rasped. "No please, no favors anymore. I'm done for, don't be polite to a dead woman."

"Ma'am."

"Where is Swann?"

"Ma'am?"

"Where is the Swann girl?"

Polly felt frightened tears prick her eyes. "I don't know, ma'am, but Lord Beckett says you're to be on your ship now. He said it this morning after breakfast. I think…I think you should be going now, ma'am."

"I will." Mrs. Prior leaned against the mantle and the jagged cut above her eye wept blood onto the hearthstone. "But I need to know, where is the Swann girl?"

"I don't know, ma'am," Polly managed to repeat though her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Mrs. Prior lifted her shoulders in an artless shrug. "Do you know I've killed a man tonight?"

Polly muffled a scream behind her hands. Mrs. Prior laughed.

"No reason," she said, "no reason at all. But I killed him just the same."

Polly began to back out of the kitchen, wondering, praying that she could run fast enough and summon the guard. But then Mrs. Prior gathered herself, shook herself once and fastened the tarnished buttons on her black coat.

"I'm going," she said. "And you may tell Lord Beckett, if he asks, that all I loved, I loved alone. He'll know what it means, he ought to."

And without another word, without another frantic gesture or flailing, she left. Polly waited several long minutes, waited for relief to thaw the fear that froze her limbs before she called for the guard. The sentry came and walked with her to the servant's quarters and together they swore not to tell Lord Beckett any of it and they swore to offer their most fervent prayers to merciful God, that he might strike Mrs. Prior down before ever she returned.

For most of the night Polly sat with a candle lit surrounded by easefully sleeping servants. Hours past before sleep took her and she did not hear the back gate swing open once more, nor slam close a short while later.

* * *

_The line "And all I loved, I loved alone" comes from "Alone" by Edgar Allan Poe, a particular favorite of mine. _


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter fourteen of "Delicacy". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta, Pirates Fan**, **Scarlet Snidget**, **Olivegreeneyes** and **Ladybug21**. Thank you all so much, I truly appreciate your feedback. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Fourteen**

There was a single rose on the dressing table in Elizabeth's bedchamber. A red rose. A crimson, sinful flower that sat in a elegant white vase. Elizabeth hated the look of it, the way it seemed to smile, saturated with conceit and understanding. She rolled onto her side and faced the wall. But still the rose stared.

It had to be sometime before dawn. Elizabeth had learned to calculate the hours by the changing of guards in the corridor. Apparently, Lord Beckett still thought her untrustworthy and had doubled the number of sentries guarding the stairs.

He was right to be cautious.

Now that her plan had fallen through, her perfect plot for revenge, Elizabeth felt herself chafing under her imprisonment. The walls of the bedchamber fenced her in, a suffocating den for a wily she-fox.

But she was not wily. She was not clever. She was not even particularly smart.

Elizabeth had failed, failed to notice the single matter of importance, the throbbing lust that hid beneath the porcelain veneer of Beckett's stoicism.

She had been mistaken. She had been remiss. She had been wrong.

Seduction.

Ha! The notion was laughable now, a thing to be mocked and teased. She had played straight into his hands.

Had she the strength, Elizabeth would have hated herself, reviled every inch of her flesh that he had touch. But she was tired now and only a sigh made her breast rise. Often she had heard tales, childhood allegories of women who died for their virginity, martyrs and saints, flowers described as fair yet chaste.

And yet she was the red rose, the sinner, the whore.

How could she ever face Will again?

Death would be a reprieve and Elizabeth fancied she was dying. Grief would take her before the next merciless memory drove a blade into her heart. Blackness would blot her out.

She did not care for revenge anymore…or life.

Elizabeth turned onto her back, felt the bed dip down beneath her weight, felt the irrepressible sorrow fill her lungs like water. She would drown before the morning sun pushed past the insolent clouds.

One last time she glanced at the rose. Lord Beckett had sent it to her last evening. She wondered if he was frightened of her now. After Mrs. Prior had been exiled, so had Elizabeth. Beckett had cast her from his bedchamber and ignored her the following day.

Elizabeth had imagined his torment, finding succor only when she thought of him as tortured, repentant. And then he had sent her the red rose and Elizabeth knew that he did not care for thing. What a horrid notion that was, to belong to a careless man, to be trapped by one who had everything to gain in life and nothing to lose.

Elizabeth watched the rose now and laughed lowly, the sound rupturing the pain that kept her jaw set and locked. She laughed at the pretty petals, the sleek stem with it's two, pointed thorns and luscious leaves.

Why should she be bothered a flower?

Elizabeth closed her eyes and settled her hands on her stomach. The creaks and groans of the otherwise silent house gnawed at her ears. She heard someone cough. She heard the crackle of a fire in some far off room. And in the distance, the dark, indefinable distance, she heard a gate swing open.

The guards were coming, the guards that would pace outside her chamber, Beckett's puppets who would do naught but mimic his futile power over her. How great would their shock be then, when they found her dead the next morning. The maid would come in with some poor breakfast. The tray would clatter to the floor, the pot of tea shattering and spraying the succulent ambrosia over the dingy coverlets. They would see her lying there, perfect, preserved by the dew shed from the dying moon.

And then Lord Beckett would be sent for and he would know that she had willed herself to die to spite him, yes it was all to spite him now.

Elizabeth smiled as she lay, but frowned when she heard an indecisive step on the stair. A whisper, it was a whisper, not the trod of the guard or a servant.

A shudder shook her pale body. There was a click and the bolts that fastened her door slid open.

Elizabeth sprang up, forgetting her weakness, forgetting death, forgetting the silly rose on the nightstand.

"Come gently now, girl," someone rasped, "or they'll hear."

All was silent again. Elizabeth did not hear any retreating footsteps. She stood. The door was open.

Warmth spiraled through her limbs and reminded her of life. Elizabeth crept to the door and tested it.

Open, it was open.

She peered out into the corridor.

Empty, it was empty.

The guards were gone.

Elizabeth glanced back into her chamber, glanced back at the foolish rose that sat in it's slim vase on the nightstand.

And then she fled.

No hesitation slowed her step this time, no torturous wonderment or debate. Elizabeth fled the house, fled down the corridor, down the long stairs and into the kitchen. A low fire birthed tiny embers in the hearth, small, hot ashes that reminded her of a blacksmith's forge. And Will stood over it, hammer in hand, a contagious smile twisting his kissable lips.

Elizabeth fled out into the courtyard and was greeted by the rising sun. Pink clouds parted for golden beams. For a moment she stood in the open air, stared at the hopeful patches of light blue that peppered the sky. And then she fled, stumbled down the hill that housed Beckett's manor and into the still slumbering center of Port Royal. It was as she had remembered, with gulls swooping amongst the gables and chattering on the sandy beaches.

There were ships in the harbor. Handsome ships with graceful masts and smooth hulls. The sea was waiting, the endless, life-giving sea that welcomed her with crashing waves and warm, cerulean waters.

* * *

Governor Swann had been resting, resting as well as any man could on a few stalks of moldy straw. The cell floor was hard beneath him and damp. A single, narrow window opened to reveal a murky morning sky. Steam rose off the sweating bodies of his fellow prisoners.

Fellow prisoners, humph. Swann had never seen the jail so full. Commodore Norrington had kept the streets of Port Royal quiet and clean with just law. And Swann liked to think that his own paternal presence had dissuaded much wrongdoing. Of course, one always had to contend with rogues. Pickpockets and pirates and the like. But the men, women and children crammed into the stinking cells were not thieves, at least not any he could recognize.

There was a portly baker across the corridor, a man by the name of Jenkins who had always been thought of as a goodly fellow. Two cells away sat Mrs. McKenna, an Irish widow with auburn hair and a talented cobbler at that. And then there was old Mr. Brown, the blacksmith, slouched against the wall and pale for want of drink. Swann tried to avoid looking at the man who reminded him only of a skinny, pirate of a boy who had sought the hand of his Elizabeth and now sailed the seas freely while they rotted.

Swann rolled over and crossed his aching arms over his dirty blue waistcoat. Oh, who knew if Elizabeth was still alive…

A hoot and a holler shattered his misery. All along the corridor prisoners were standing, shouting, holding out their pathetically thin arms in protest.

"It's the rat, the damned rat," Mrs. McKenna sobbed and covered her face with her shawl.

"Kill 'em!" Jenkins bellowed.

Only Mr. Brown stayed silent, his head drowsily tipped against his chest.

Governor Swann looked up and noticed a rather disheveled Lord Beckett come stalking into the prison. The fiend was accompanied by at least a dozen guards, some of whom Swann had known by name…and loyalty. No more.

His lordship was nothing less than harried and bore the look of a man lately disturbed from sleep. Of course, he wore both breeches and coat but his hair had yet to be dressed and languid brown curls dripped across his shoulders, contained by a loose queue.

Beckett stopped abruptly outside Swann's cell and the governor dragged himself up into a sitting position, struggling to remain stoic despite the horrid pain that weakened his limbs.

"Where is she?"

"Your pardon, sir?" Swann said dryly.

Beckett slammed his fists against the bars.

"Where is your daughter?"

It took Swann a moment to understand. Elizabeth, Beckett wanted to know where she was. That must mean…that could only mean….

He rose shakily to his feet.

"Elizabeth?"

Beckett raised his head, eyes suddenly hard and hawk-like. "Elizabeth." It was an admission of weakness and the way Beckett spoke her name made Swann's skin prickle with fear.

Something was wrong, wretchedly wrong….

"She's alive?" he whispered, hope kindling a fresh fire of resistance in his chest. "Is she hurt?"

"I haven't the slightest notion." Beckett leaned upon the rotting bars, his shoulders wedged between them. "She's gone, as of this morning. And I had thought…she didn't come for you?"

Swann forced himself to face Beckett. Elizabeth was free and she had not come for him. At once, the blaze was snuffed out, his fire failing and leaving him cold. Elizabeth was free…and she had not come for him.

"No," he said in a voice that was dead, decaying.

Beckett laughed. "I should have guessed it. Wily Miss Swann, a heartless bitch."

There were scattered chuckles amongst the guards. The prisoners were silent. Swann took a step back.

Elizabeth was free, that was all that mattered. Perhaps she had boarded a ship to England, yes, England. Help might be found there in the king's court. But how long had it been since Lord Beckett had bought His Majesty with thirty pieces of gleaming silver? And who did he deceive with his hope. Elizabeth had not gone to England. Why go to England when Will was waiting?

Beckett was still laughing, his face a mask of mirth meant to disguise unease. "I suppose I taught her well after all."

Bile coated Swann's throat. He choked. Dear God…dear God.

His knees gave way and despite all his struggle, his conjured strength, he fell.

Beckett ceased his laughing, turned to his guards and beckoned them with a dandified wave of his hand.

"Come, gentlemen, she's not to be found here. No, not when-"

"My lord." A weak wisp of a voice punctured Beckett's cool tenor.

But his lordship stopped nonetheless and glared at the cowed guard, the frightened Private Murtogg who held his musket in his white, bony fingers.

"That Mrs. Prior," he ventured, "the maid said she came to the kitchen last night, a bit funny she was, disturbed. And later on I heard the gate open and close, my lord."

Silence.

Beckett seemed to deflate, his skin waxy, an effigy of dread.

"Mrs. Prior?" he asked.

"Mrs. Prior, my lord," Murtogg affirmed. "I'm sure of it."

For one moment, Beckett glanced at Swann and Swann stared at him. And for one moment, they both knew to fear for Elizabeth.

* * *

There was blood on hands. Yes, blood. Black blood. Blood that seeped into her skin and poisoned her. But Camilla Prior didn't think of herself as a murderer.

No.

No, she couldn't be a murderer. Murderers went to Hell. Murderers were tormented after death. Murderers didn't deserve pity.

Standing on the deck of a wretched, rocking, sea-tossed merchant ship, Mrs. Prior yearned for pity.

A smile. A thawed glance. A gentle hand pressed against her twisted, aching shoulder.

Somewhere along the way, somewhere along a winding London street, a cramped hovel, a piss-stained alley, she had lost herself. And Mrs. Prior missed kindness, missed being counted on for something other than her ability to kill.

Lord Beckett wasn't kind her. Nor did he pity her. And now it seemed as though he had never cared for her in the first place.

Mrs. Prior let her knees fall upon the railing and she watched the sea.

Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.

The rhythm was hypnotic and a wet wind licked her brow. She felt the fever subside, the pain in her hand ebb and she could think clearly once more.

Port Royal was behind her now, that seemingly exotic place where she existed only under the humid shadows. Mrs. Prior decided that exile was better than watching Beckett enchant his new pet.

But she would have the last laugh. Yes. She would laugh all the way Tortuga. She would shriek and dream of how she had deceived Lord Beckett.

Mrs. Prior undid the tight, ragged ribbon that held back her hair. Echoes of ebony spilled across her face, streamed out on the wind and reached fingertips towards the sky.

Tortuga awaited.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter fifteen of "Delicacy". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **cazonetta, Rokhal**, **PirateKnightoftheRings, Olivegreeneyes**, **sexysinger** and **Ladybug21**. Thank you all so much, I treasure all feedback. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Fifteen**

Mrs. Prior felt like she would retch.

Pirates.

Prostitutes.

Paupers.

And the whole damned place was provincial.

Damn it all and damn Lord Cutler Beckett to hell.

She had not expected this, had not expected the sea-shell strewn streets, the ratty little taverns from which shouts and pistol shots rang and the people, the filthy, disgusting people.

Mrs. Prior knew she was above this place and as it was, she wasn't above much. Insult rubbed her wounds raw. So this was where she was likely to die-Tortuga. The name had a decidedly exotic flair to it, one that had left her hopeful when she disembarked from the tiny merchant vessel that was now quickly fleeing the disorderly harbor. But her unfounded hope now sank into her stomach like a stone, leaving her nauseous and unsettled and nothing less than furious.

How was she to do her job here? How was she pick through whispers and slip down streets and return triumphant to Beckett, return a conquering queen who had done what she had been sent to do.

The notion was laughable, hysterically so. Lord Beckett knew exactly where he had sent her and he knew exactly what would happen when she arrived.

A death sentence it was then and Mrs. Prior would die between a pig trough and some piss-stained mud.

She sighed. At least her fever had abated some.

The long dock leading up from the harbor was crowded. Scrawny cabin boys darted around muscled sailors. And Mrs. Prior felt so very out of place amongst these men of the sea.

She pulled up the collar of her coat and walked, hands in pockets, steps short and sure. No one seemed to pay much mind to her. Good. She hated to be watched. The dock emptied onto a waterfront street, a chaotic lane that ran straight up into the town square. But there were too many people. She would look for a quiet place to sit and get her bearings.

A tavern, maybe.

With the mien of a patient spider, Mrs. Prior worked her way through the throng of stinking bodies. An obscure, hovel of an inn sat to her right and she tried to ignore the apt, but crude name scrawled across the welcoming sign, "The Maidenhead". Once inside, she was assaulted by a symphony of scents-all unpleasant. Rotund and ragged serving maids knocked into her.

Just as there had been chaos in the streets, so was there chaos within and Mrs. Prior only just managed to squeeze into a bare corner. She was served some bitter drink, some poor excuse for wine and her stomach nearly revolted against it. A harried pulse beat against her bruised flesh.

There was no hiding in Tortuga and absolutely no way she could go about her business. How long should she stay? A night? A week? Either way, she had little to return to. Port Royal was a mausoleum to her, an empty spit of land where _she _was. The name jumped into her mind like a curse, a hex sent to torment her.

Elizabeth Swann.

Mrs. Prior growled. She should have killed the whore, should have throttled the life out of…but instead she had let her go.

A strange thing that was. Mrs. Prior never let her enemies go…nor her friends.

Smiling smugly, she sipped the wine with renewed taste. A toast then, yes, she would have a toast to Lord Beckett. But oh, she wished she could have been there to see his face when he discovered the Swann girl gone.

That would have been quite amusing.

Mrs. Prior drained the mug, relishing in her sudden sense of freedom. How had she become entangled with Beckett, after all? She was certain she had been much happier on her own, destitute, starving-but content.

A serving maid slid another mug across the table to her and Mrs. Prior twined her fingers about the handle, already drifting with the tempestuous touch of the libation. She remembered now, remembered how she had been cast out into the streets and so had turned to Beckett. It seemed rather foolish now. Perhaps she should have stayed with the tailor after all.

* * *

_It was autumn in Whitechapel, which meant only that thin layers of ice stretched over the puddles of mud and piss that littered the streets and the stench of burning coal would fill the air with a most noxious ash. Mrs. Prior didn't mind it so much, as long as she had the tiny, wood-fueled fire to sew by and the drafty, leaking roof over her head._

_She was most fortunate to have a place now that her mother had cast her aside. Perhaps she would survive well enough for the next few months._

_Whatever the misery of her condition, the fragile hunting coat in her hands spoke of elegance and riches, wealth. Mrs. Prior tried not to mind the feel of the silk as it rushed like water through her fingers, tried not to mind the gentleness of the fabric. She would think of John then and Betty's wispy, curling brown hair. And memories brought burning brands that would mercilessly press against her heart. Instead, Mrs. Prior concentrated on the tiny stitches that shaped the movements of her nimble hands. The thread was black, strong and cut into her frigid palms whenever she paused to rest._

"_Have the sleeve sewn already?"_

_Mrs. Prior glanced up briefly when the tailor entered. He was an older man, stoop-shouldered and had a clouded pair of glasses eternally perched on his nose. Scraps of discarded fabrics were pinned to his waistcoat, patches used for a quick job of darning. Mrs. Prior thought he looked like molting bird of some sort, but why the fellow kept shop in Whitechapel, she had no idea. He had quite enough coin to set up nicely elsewhere._

_Not that she was complaining…Whitechapel had a certain intoxicating way about itself anyway._

"_Almost," she whispered, her breath spilling out across the frozen air and warming her fingertips. "When is he due in?"_

"_Lord Darby's son?" The tailor lifted his shoulders in an artless shrug. "An hour, maybe, but he doesn't expect his coat to be finished yet…I hope."_

_Mrs. Prior shook her head and dove back into her work. If there was one thing she disliked about the tailor, it was his rather disorganized business habits. Disorganization bred chaos and Mrs. Prior _hated _chaos._

_But there was something comforting in the way he shuffled about the cramped room, the way the measuring tape swung from his belt as he hummed to himself. They weren't husband and wife. They weren't man and whore. They weren't even friends really. Two human beings, yes, that was it, two bereft human beings with a desperate need for company and someone else to help pay the rent._

_And Mrs. Prior was grateful to know that there existed other creatures who were nearly as miserable as she._

_The door downstairs opened. The tailor stopped his shuffling. Mrs. Prior continued on with her work._

"_Lord Darby's son?" the tailor mouthed. _

_Mrs. Prior set her needle to the side and tore the thread with her teeth. She didn't like intruders, be they costumers, fellow tradesmen or family. Not that she had any family. John was dead and her rheumatic mother wanted little-well, nothing-to do with her. Mrs. Prior shivered and tried to think of something else, but memories pounded against her skull, shards of bitter words and insults that had been laid upon her bare flesh like a barbed whip. She had gone to live with her mother…after, after everything. But the quaint countryside was not as she remembered, her childhood cottage more of a straw shack and less of a welcoming home. And her mother, her own dear mother who had once nursed her so tenderly, had become a suspicious bitch._

_Where was John?_

_Why did Camilla not visit her daughter's grave?_

_And why did she wake up in nights screaming? Why were her eyes wild? Why did she weep all the time?_

_It had ended with her mother quoting scripture. 'He who troubles his own house shall inherit the wind' or some such nonsense. Her mother wasn't prepared to weather any storm for her sake and Mrs. Prior was banished back to the city-a paradise compared to the pastoral nightmare._

_But still, she missed her mother or rather, the comforting feel of warmth that was associated with love._

_The tailor was dashing about now, clearing a rickety chair of stained, cotton scraps and putting the kettle on for a bit of tea. Mrs. Prior stayed where she was, only folding her hands on her lap with a disgruntled sigh. Hopefully, Lord Darby's son would be quick._

_The gentleman was admitted soon after, a tall, somewhat ungainly man with a shrew's upturned nose and a practiced way of speaking._

_Handsome, Mrs. Prior thought at first. His skin was powdered and he smelled of fresh picked mint and honeysuckle. But his eyes…she didn't much care for _them_. Licentious, opportunistic, crafty. She frowned and threaded another needle. The tailor was offering him tea and stale biscuits. The gentleman waved him away._

"_Is my coat ready yet?" _

_Mrs. Prior sucked the tips of her fingers. Lord Darby's son made her uncomfortable. There was something decidedly out of place about him. Noblemen didn't belong in the slums and she thought he must be one of those errant fellows, the type that strolled through the most fetid corners of ancient London for a cheap thrill. Slummers, they were called and Mrs. Prior hated them, especially the way they titled all women "Unfortunates", prostitutes. _

_She wasn't a whore._

_The tailor cleared his throat. "Camilla?" _

_Mrs. Prior dutifully held up one sleeve for inspection. "Just about, sir. Just have to finish the braiding on the cuff."_

_The tailor nodded, his air shifting from careless to sycophantic. "It shouldn't be long then, sir. Will you sit and wait, sir? Have another cup of tea, sir?"_

"_No." Lord Darby's son drew out the word, his lips puckered by a sudden smile. "I'm quite fine as it is." Languidly, he moved closely to Mrs. Prior, hand outstretched. He pretended to touch the fabric on her lap, but instead, plunged his fingers between her thighs. Mrs. Prior tensed, her leg muscles coiling. With great difficulty, she restrained herself and offered him the cruelest of glances. After a moment, Lord Darby's son swallowed nervously and withdrew his hand._

_The tailor pushed his glasses further up his nose. "I'll tell your coachman to wait, sir," he said._

"_No need. Tell Charles he might return home."_

_The tailor nodded and slipped out of the room like the coward he was. _

_Mrs. Prior shuddered with rage. So this was how they thought to play the game. Well, they were mistaken, both sorely mistaken._

_Lord Darby's son smiled roguishly. _

"_A bit more privacy for us now," he said cheekily. "Tell me, are you familiar with the theater? Ever seen John Gay's "The Beggar's Opera"? It's a delightful farce and not quite beyond you common folk. Perhaps I might take you there in my fine carriage some night."_

_He was mocking her now and Mrs. Prior hated to be mocked. She set aside his garish, ugly, fop coat and wriggled her fingers, loosening her joints and chasing away the chill._

"_I'm not a whore," she told him directly._

_Lord Darby's son raised a powdered brow. "But that can be arranged, I'm certain."_

"_Never."_

"_I'll pay you well and not just for tonight."_

"_No."_

_The man sighed, chewing the inside of his lip. "Why so prudish? By God, Your husband isn't even alive!" And without warning, he slipped his hand down her short gown._

_She hissed, a cat with claws at the ready. But Lord Darby's son was a fool of a man and only smiled. Mrs. Prior recoiled for an instance before lurching forward and biting him on the ear. He howled. Blood, there was blood, splattered on the floor, all over the dandy coat. He howled and the tailor came rushing in, face yellow like sour milk._

"_Mother of God!" he bellowed._

_Lord Darby's son was reeling about like a wounded animal and Mrs. Prior just stood, smiling, never more pleased with herself. But then he recovered, briefly and belted her hard across the face._

_Anger fueled the blazing furnace within her. She fell to the floor and touched her quickly swelling cheek. There were words, garbled phrases. The door slammed shut. The tailor seemed to be weeping._

_In a flash, he was by her side, hauling her to her feet with little ceremony and less care._

"_Out!" he cried, stinking spit spraying from his mouth. "Out! And don't come back."_

_Mrs. Prior didn't protest. She wanted to flee now, to run through the streets until her legs were numb and she could forget the unwanted feel of his fingers. But as she tumbled out of the shop and into the suffocating fog she saw him, Lord Darby's son, the bastard, tying a handkerchief over his bleeding ear. His coachman had not come back and he would walk home, disorientated, stumbling, lost._

_Mrs. Prior gathered herself stealthy. He hadn't seen her…not yet. Perhaps, if she was careful, if she watched and stalked him long enough, she would be the last thing he ever saw.

* * *

_

Mrs. Prior stared into her mug, sticky with poor wine and grime. She felt disgusted and pushed it away. The serving girl was over in a second, a frown pinching her face.

"You don't want it?" she asked, taking the mug up in her spindly fingers.

"Not really." Mrs. Prior crossed her arms over her chest. She felt chilled now. Could the fever be returning? It had abated during her voyage, the cool sea breezes whisking it away to the end of the world. And a nice scab had formed over the grievous bite mark on her hand. She had hoped she was getting better….

"No more wine," she said.

The girl picked at her grey teeth. "Rum, then?"

"Nothing." Mrs. Prior fished inside her pocket for a coin, a bit of Beckett's pay that she had stored in case of disaster. And of course, disaster was never far away as far as she was concerned.

"Are you sure?" the serving girl flipped her head in the direction of the bar. "There's a man that's been paying for you. Says you can drink on him."

Mrs. Prior froze. There were three men at the bar, one in dull brown waistcoat, one in his shirtsleeves and another in a torn blue coat-a Navy uniform.

Her voice fell away and left her speechless. She didn't want to be paid for. Shaking her head, Mrs. Prior rose and all but fled the tavern. The air outside was wretchedly hot and she walked for a long while, walked until her black boots were muddy and her hand began to throb. She needed to rest, but something drove her onward, a frightened feeling that made her back and neck cold.

Was someone watching her?

The notion was terrifying and Mrs. Prior walked until the night was an impenetrable black and her knees gave way. After that, she finally settled herself in a dim doorway, legs crossed, hands falling into her lap with an air of irrepressible disappointment. So she was out of the fire now, but trapped instead in a muddy, filth-strewn purgatory. Tortuga wasn't half so promising as she had expected. No, it was a home to the basest of wretches, the fraying threads of humanity that hid on the fringe of the tapestry of life. She watched them for a while. Paupers, prostitutes and pirates. Distaste welled within her, a sickening feeling that left her tongue tasting tart.

She had been wrong to think of this place as London. Ah, that ancient city was different, a one-time stronghold of Romans, palace to the Tudors and a festering sore of commoners. But London was different. London had a purpose, a plan, a plot. There was no aimless wandering in London, no pointless folly. The streets there held secrets, the cobblestones humming with tales of better, brighter days, or sinister ballads of battle. Mrs. Prior loved London and hated Lord Beckett for snatching her away. The Caribbean was a blank, bare canvas of sea, punctured only by pale islands and creaking ships.

Nothing of use might be found here. No release, no reprieve, no rebirth.

Mrs. Prior yawned, her cracked lips drawing back over her teeth like a braying donkey. The fish-tainted air filtered into her mouth and made her gag. Oh, what was the use. She might as well get some sleep.

Stretching out her long legs, Mrs. Prior leaned back, her head cradled between the doorjamb and wall, boot heels planted in the sludge like immovable stones. Around her there was much chatter and a keen buzzing in her ears, a whirring that kept in time with her slow heartbeat. She hated this place, this peculiar, rotten, ugly-

"Jesus Christ!"

Something slammed against her ankles and Mrs. Prior jolted, her bleary eyes flying open as a man tumbled to the ground.

"Damn it all to hell, lad, can't you see people are walking about?" The man was on his knees, a fine smudge of dirt darkening his yellowed face. Two beetle black eyes glared at her with all the fury of a king and the unabashed insolence of a rogue.

Mrs. Prior glanced at her legs and then back at the vagabond.

"Sorry," she muttered, tucking her hands within her coat. The man scrambled to his feet, stumbling and reeling about like the drunkard he was.

"Oi, you ain't a laddie." He tipped back his straw hat. "Ain't a laddie at all. What a pretty young thing you are, pretty little filly, little fawn. Too fine for a place like this you are."

Mrs. Prior bit back an amused smile and settled down to sleep. "You'd be surprised to hear of the places I've been, sir."

"Saucy," the man panted. "I like 'em saucy and fresh….how much?"

Mrs. Prior's spine stiffened when she realized what the fellow was after. Wrinkling her pert nose, she shook her head.

"I don't charge a thing."

"No?" The man's fingers flew to his trouser buttons. "You mean…for free?"

"I mean I don't whore myself. Now off with you, I'm trying to sleep."

"Not a whore? I didn't ask if you was a whore. I asked how much."

The man was getting louder, his reedy voice leaping a note higher until he sounded like a rodent. Mrs. Prior watched as he scratched his whiskery upper lip in confusion. Ha, he did look quite like a rat.

She began to laugh.

"What's this now?" And suddenly the man lashed out with his lanky arm and grabbed the front of her coat. "What's set you laughing, wench? Is it me? Aye, it is me! Think you're too proper, too good to be fucked. Come here!"

Mrs. Prior growled as he tried to tear open her shirt, hands reaching for her breasts in a wretchedly lewd manner. She pushed him back with the edge of her hip and sent him careening into a crumbling shed. But the man was surprisingly spry and in a moment, he recovered and flew at her. His weight brought Mrs. Prior to the ground, the air shooting out of her lungs as he tugged at her breeches.

Fury mad her blood boil and thinking of haughty Lord Darby's son and the last frightened look on his face as his life left him, she freed her hands and wrapped them about his throat.

The man gurgled and gasped. Mrs. Prior tightened her grip. She almost had him dead, almost had him killed with his bulging eyes and body writhing and pain cutting lines of horror in his brow.

But then it was all over. His nearly dead weight was lifted off her and thrown roughly to the side.

"Good God." A hand brushed her shoulder, then settled by her collar bone. "Still breathing."

The voice was warm, yet fragile. Mrs. Prior was gently lifted up and set upon her feet.

"Has he hurt you much, Miss?" The deliciously soothing tone washed over her, washed away the last hurt that made her limbs tighten and tense.

Mrs. Prior turned and faced the strange man in the torn Navy coat.

She smiled. "No, sir."

* * *

_Whitechapel is an inner city district of London, which, through the 17th and 19th centuries, became the epitome of a Dickensian neighborhood. Housing the poor and destitute and hundreds of prostitutes, Whitechapel was made somewhat infamous as the killing ground of Jack the Ripper in 1888._

_The term "Unfortunates" is a Victorian phrase used to refer to prostitutes, however, I thought it rather suited the feel of this piece._

"_The Beggar's Opera" was indeed an extremely popular ballad opera written in 1728 by John Gay. It was a highly successful piece in its time, with a cast of characters including aristocrats, the middle class and the common poor. Lord Darby's son's remark that Mrs. Prior would enjoy it is therefore sarcastic as the opera's music was somewhat based around common folk ballads. _


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Author's Note: **Here I am with another belated chapter and I do apologize for the delay. However, the good news is I am finally wrapping up my fall semester so I will have over a month free to write, which is good considering I am not even halfway through this story. This chapter, however, is another Norrington-centric one, though Beckett will back in the next installment. I would like to thank everyone who has been reading and also, those who took the time to review **Olivegreeneyes**, **TavyBeckettFan**, **cazonetta**, **Ladybug21**, **Commodore Cuddles**, **Lady Elizabeth Beckett** and **Space Potato**. Thanks, you guys. Feedback always means the world to me. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Sixteen**

They walked down to the beach together, a deserted spit of land littered with broken shells and shattered rum bottles. Her companion fell onto the sand, arms draped around his knees and he stared at her, curious.

"Pirate?" he asked.

Mrs. Prior laughed. "No, sir."

"Sir?" the man snorted. "You think to call me sir?"

"I was mocking you," she replied truthfully and shifted in her boots, feet aching.

The man sighed. "Whore?"

"No."

"Luckless?"

"Yes."

"So is everyone else here." He clenched his hands into fists.

Mrs. Prior sucked her teeth. The sun was rising already and she hadn't slept. A dull throb returned to her head, pounding against her skull until she winced. By God, she would never drink again.

"Might I have your name?" she asked and to her surprise, he was quick to answer.

"James."

She shifted her hips. "A surname? Or are you a bastard?"

The man grimaced and his soft eyes were hard then, angry. "Norrington."

Mrs. Prior's stomach dropped into her boots.

Norrington?

She had heard that name before, yes. The stuffy, proper quality resonated within her wretched heart and she remembered. This was the man Lord Beckett was searching for, the ill-fated Navy man who knew of Jack Sparrow.

Oh, what fortune.

Mrs. Prior blinked, wondering if her sight deceived her and she was wrong. Or perhaps this gent was a villain, a man of her measure and he had been sent by the devil to torment her.

She touched her tongue to her teeth. "Commodore Norrington?"

He stiffened. Mrs. Prior smiled.

"I know of you, then," she crowed. "Yes, I know of you."

"Vengeful are we?" James asked, his expression sour. "I thought you were a pirate."

"Bah!" Mrs. Prior recoiled. "No! No, indeed!"

He laughed a little under his breath, his body lurching forward with every gasp so that Mrs. Prior believed she beheld a man in great pain. "Then what are you?"

A shrug lifted her shoulders. "Mrs. Prior."

"Quite imaginative you are." James looked off into the dawn, the sky shedding a fine layer of lingering grey, the last of the night.

"Yes." She rocked back and forth on her heels. "Yes, I am. And as it is, no title truly suits me."

"Jack of all trades?" His gaze cut over to her.

"You could say that." She beamed. "But I've been _sent_."

"So have they all." James glanced back at the still noisy Tortuga, the streets now brimming with lazy ruffians who had not the strength to stagger home after a night of drinking. "I've heard their stories, all of them. Men in search of treasure, of wealth. Men on the run from the Navy. Humph, men searching for lost loves. But they all insist they've be _sent_, it's all the same."

"Hmm." Mrs. Prior tapped a finger to her chin. "But I'm not a _man_."

James looked stunned. "Fair enough."

"Where are you from?" Mrs. Prior let her smile widen, her lips drawing back to reveal the fine points of her teeth. She leaned over James and blew a little in his ear. Tendrils of filthy hair quivered. He shuddered.

"Port Royal," the response was curt, but laden with some deep memory, one that cut into his flesh and burrowed amongst his bones.

Mrs. Prior paced around him and walked all the way to where the low-tide waves licked the shore.

"Strange, I would have guessed England."

He sighed. Frustration made his stooped shoulders rise and fall. Mrs. Prior glanced at him and a keen fluttering filled her stomach, warming her thighs. She had forgotten what it was like to control a man and she had forgotten how very thrilling the game could be, the chase, the hunt. Her tongue curled in her mouth.

No, not yet.

"Originally," James barked. He had his head in hands now and those strangely delicate fingers kneaded his temples.

Mrs. Prior tried to imagine him as a fine Navy man, as an officer with a pretty wig and pristine stockings and a sword. But no, he would be like Beckett then and she wanted no such man, no such demon. Perhaps James was better this way, reduced…vulnerable.

"London?" she prompted.

He shrugged. "I visited the city on the Thames once, but never lived there."

"I did."

He let his hands fall into his lap. "Where?"

She laughed. Her back arched a little, thrusting her abdomen out. A cat she was, one of those alley creatures that slinked along shadow-dappled walls. Her teeth clicked together. "The _East _End."

"I shouldn't be surprised then." Defiance lit an uneasy spark in James' eye. "That you ended up here."

But Mrs. Prior was too caught up in the game to be offended. She turned away from the waves and the pummeling, roaring sound that echoed up off the ocean. "Why? I liked Whitechapel well enough."

James recoiled. "Are you _mad_?" There was curiosity in his voice.

"A little," she crooned.

He shifted in the sand, limbs tense and taut. Mrs. Prior circled him.

"What, there's nothing wrong with a little madness now, is there?"

"It depends." His eyes flew to her and she relished in her height, the way she could lean over him and overpower him with her body. "And if you find Whitechapel so agreeable, why leave? Or did the tide spit you up in Tortuga?"

She pretended to be amused by his poor jest. "Business," Mrs. Prior replied after a chuckle. "I am here on business."

James fell silent then and she was disappointed when he did not ask another question. A shame, she thought she had been leading him along.

"I work for the East India Trading Company, you know," she said.

He laughed sourly. "A lie."

"You don't believe me?" Mrs. Prior laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed ever so slightly. He responded to her touch, did not shrink away but pressed against her weight. Mrs. Prior swallowed. Her control was slipping, her grip tightening. With difficulty, she released him.

"You've given me little reason to." James jammed his hands into his pockets, legs stretched out before him like dried pieces of driftwood.

Mrs. Prior likewise shoved her hands inside her coat and rocked back and forth upon her heels. "I answer to Lord Beckett alone, certainly you would believe him."

James frowned. The lines crossing his brow deepened. "You?"

"Myself."

"Ha. And now you see, there is something amiss with a little madness."

"Perhaps." Mrs. Prior curbed her anger, softening her voice which threatened to overwhelm her with rage. "But I am quite prepared to offer you a full pardon, a commission as a privateer if you like, whatever that means…I don't know, I'm just a poor messenger." She chewed her lower lip. "Unless, sir, you quite prejudiced against accepting the offer of a madwoman."

A moment of silence followed and then suddenly he was on his feet, hands outstretched and grasping her wrists.

"You lie!" He shook her fiercely.

Mrs. Prior raised a brow, tipping forward until she was pressed against him and he could feel her breathing. Direct contact, body to body, skin to skin was perhaps the quickest way to weaken a man. But she despised revealing herself as a flesh and blood being, a creature that could be wounded and destroyed and broken.

She sighed and felt his heartbeat quicken against hers. "Yes, you're right. I do not have the authority to offer you both a pardon and a commission. But if you bring Beckett Sparrow's compass-ah, you know the name I see-then I am certain, so very certain you will be rewarded, or restored to your former _glory_ if you prefer."

He released her, stumbled and staggered, looking again like a lost little boy.

"Trying to quell your hope?" Mrs. Prior asked, flicking a haughty hand in his direction. Oh, she was in her element now, yes. Why, she almost felt as though she were back in Whitechapel, back stalking through the narrow, cobblestone streets amongst the wretched whores and poor, starving men who would eat their own guts if they could.

James sank to his knees, looking thoroughly submissive. He blinked his bleak eyes once, then took her hand in his, rubbing her sweaty palm with his thumb.

"What would Lord Beckett want with me?"

Mrs. Prior cackled, the noise vibrating in the back of her throat and she hummed a little, a lost scrape of some happy tune that she had heard once when the days were long and her family yet lived.

"_Everything_, my dear."

James let go of her hand, fumbled in his pocket and found a cracked bottle of rum. He lifted it to his lips but Mrs. Prior was quicker. She snatched it from him and cast it far away. It landed in the churning sea with a satisfying splash. He was enraged, but only for a moment and then fell to weeping once more.

She hauled off and belted him once. Straight across the face, hard. He reeled, hiccupped and sucked the blood from his lips.

"You see, a little madness _does _go a long way." Mrs. Prior grabbed his chin and let her nails burrow in his flesh.

"Leave me be," he begged.

She shook him roughly, fingers trailing crimson across his cheeks. "Listen."

He obeyed, falling dumb but not deaf. Mrs. Prior swallowed, trying to remember the days when Lord Beckett had been good to her, when she had a pleasant sort of life, coming and going as she wished. Yes, there was a little dirty work on the side but other than that she didn't mind the killing.

If only she hadn't cared for him…

Love had nothing to do with it, Mrs. Prior decided. She wasn't even sure if she was capable of love, really, when she felt so hollow inside, so empty. She cared for him maybe, responded to his affection and lust as any human would. But beyond that, well, she didn't give a damn.

"He's not a good man," Mrs. Prior said at length, "but a clever man. Money, he has money. Wealth would be a more apt term, perhaps. And he has power. Power." She let the word roll off her tongue to entice him.

James blinked, shaking his head fiercely so that Mrs. Prior grabbed his throat at last, fingers tingling as she felt his windpipe contract beneath her palm.

A noxious bile rose up in her throat and she thought of the East End, the sights and smells and silent screams that slipped from the crushed throats of her victims. She began shaking then, with streams of sweat pouring down her back. And all the while James stared her, innocent as a lamb, unsuspecting, trusting. Just like John, she thought, just like John until she throttled him in his own bed.

Mrs. Prior loosened her grip on James' neck and instead, took a fistful of his hair in her hand.

"Beckett'll take care of you, he will. It's a lucky man who finds himself in his lordship's employ."

James inhaled sharply, wincing a little as her fingers snaked through the tangles, nesting somewhere at the back of his head. "Are you lucky then?"

The question caught her off-guard and she snarled.

"What's this?"

"Are you lucky? Did he take care of you?" He looked at her still bandaged hand, his eyes lingering on the red flesh that peeked out from under the tightly tied rag.

Mrs. Prior expected to feel rage at his insolence, expected to explode and kill him on the spot, his trust be damned. But she was weeping then, releasing him, falling to her knees and shrieking at the sky.

"He…he…hurt me." Her voice was a whisper that slithered up her throat and made her tongue taste like ash.

James sighed and slung a heavy arm over her shoulder. "You're just another cat in a cage, I see. Another tool, another weapon-"

"I was his mistress!" She threw him off and he fell back onto the sand, the golden seeds of the sea dusting his shoulders.

James panted, propped himself up on his elbows and laughed at her. "_You_?"

"And not only his mistress," Mrs. Prior rasped, choking on the sobs that rattled her lungs. "I did things for him…and I was willing. You have no notion of me, does that frighten you? You have no notion of who I am!"

"Really?" He raised a sooty brow, the rising sun coloring his flesh red. "I should think you are quite like me, quite miserable, quite unfortunate and I am glad for the company."

Mrs. Prior stared at him, hands halfway to her face, desperate to hide her tears. But he was leaning forward and she saw his eyes, keen, eager, lips reaching her flesh.

She leapt to her feet and kicked sand in his face.

He wept, wretch, and mumbled an apology, told her he had once been a man-a good man and would never take advantage of a woman.

Mrs. Prior resumed her pacing and sniffed while she swallowed away the sobs that sat like immovable stones in her chest.

"Never mind," she said and let him cry for a while. Something warm pricked at her heart, something akin to pity and shame. This man still struggled with himself, battled with matters of good and evil while she had quite given up a long time ago.

"Never mind, James," Mrs. Prior sighed. "What poor company I should make for a man like yourself, for you were once virtuous and I was always a villain. And there is a great difference in that."

"I don't believe you," he panted.

The waves were slowly crawling back up onto the shore. Mrs. Prior looked out over the sea.

"I have some money," she said and picked him up, propped him against her hip where he shivered. "We'll get a room. Bloody hell, this sand gets everywhere."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Author's Note: **Here I am with another very late chapter and I do apologize for the delay. It took me much longer to write than anticipated and in end, I don't really care for it. Oh well. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those of you that reviewed, **LadyBug21**, **Lady Elizabeth Beckett**, **Mrs.DeppQueenObsessorGoddess**, **Scarlet Snidget** and **Drusilla Braun**. Thanks you all so much, your continued support has been so encouraging. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. Happy New Year!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean although I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Seventeen **

Beckett paced the length of his office, turned on his heel and walked smartly back, his steps slowing as the wooden floor was interrupted by a thick carpet. The house was disgustingly silent.

She was gone. Mrs. Prior was gone.

And by God, he should have never sent her away.

A shiver fingered his spine, his flesh crawling beneath the laundered linen of his shirt. Poison lingered on his lips and he licked them. A memory grew and bloomed within his galloping heart. She had kissed him goodbye, silly fool, silly whore. And it had been a mockery, a farce. The widow who pretended to love him and he, the lofty lord, who pretended to lust after her.

But they both hated each other.

Beckett paused his pacing and leaned upon the lip of his desk. He was unaccustomed to perilous self-doubt and his health paid the toll, his stomach cramped, head heavy with pain. Damn it all, Mrs. Prior, he had quite forgotten about Elizabeth Swann.

Yes, she too was gone. Elizabeth Swann was gone.

Hmm and wasn't it a wonder, wasn't it a shame that he didn't care too much about her? She had been a passing distraction perhaps, a delight sampled in fragrant, hedonistic garden. Sport, she had been naught but sport.

Mrs. Prior, however, was something else.

A strange woman, a cursed thing, a dark, evil thing. But he enjoyed their wicked dance.

And now it was over, the song faltering, fading, slipping away. He grasped at the last strains, watched as they fell through his fingers and left him, the great Lord Beckett, alone.

Hmm and wasn't it a wonder now that he thought of it? He needed her after all.

Too late. It was too late.

Reason nipped at his desperation. He had no hope of recalling her.

Where did she wander, he wondered. Where did she stray? Certainly not home to haunted England and certainly not to the grave.

She knew, yes, the damned woman knew. Knew every inch of him, his flesh, his mind, his soul. And she was dangerous for it.

Beckett straightened and his legs were aching, his bones chilled and dampened by that tempestuous thing called fear.

He had been wrong, wrong to think of Elizabeth Swann as challenge. Camilla, after all, had been the real conquest.

The sky was grey, moody, patchy. Clouds clustered about the horizon. Beckett stumbled towards the shutters and cast them open, greeting the careless wind with a pained laugh.

"Wrong," he told himself. "_I _was wrong."

* * *

Mrs. Prior helped James to the top of the stairs and watched as he stumbled into the rented room, the door swinging wildly behind him. She laughed quietly to herself and slipped into the musty little attic above the even mustier tavern. It was a poor place, boasting only a greasy, three-legged table, two scuffed chairs and sagging a mattress that was stretched over a narrow bed.

The floorboards were sticky and Mrs. Prior tread quickly across them to close the shutters over the open window that looked out over the bay. She then returned to the door, fastened the sturdy lock and dropped the key into her pocket.

James raised a brow. Light from a single, yellow candle decked his face in shadows. "Should I feel threatened?"

Mrs. Prior laughed loudly this time. "Indeed, sir."

He frowned. "I see you've taken to mocking me again."

"Not quite, sir." She seated herself in one of the chairs, grimacing as it rocked, unsteady. James did likewise, his arms resting on the table, hands splayed over faint, dusty scratches.

"What do you want with me?" he asked and his voice was thin.

Mrs. Prior pulled her hair free and let it fall over her shoulders. "I should ask you the same question, really," she said. "You did follow _me_, after all. But to what purpose?"

"No games." James straightened and he suddenly reminded Mrs. Prior of Lord Beckett, his tone lofty, air arrogant.

She sneered. "We _will_ have games. We will have games if I say so."

He rose and headed for the door.

"It's locked," she called over her shoulder, watching as his lean frame escaped the pool of weak light emitted by the candle.

"I do not need the key," he replied. James raised his leg and planted his boot heel just above the lock. The door shuddered, the wood shrieking as thin cracks cascaded along the frame.

"Sit back down," Mrs. Prior ordered. "Sit back down and there'll be no more games, you hear?"

James returned to table and composed himself.

Mrs. Prior frowned. "I want us to do business."

"Why?" His question came quick, unexpected.

She shook her head. "I thought you said no more games."

"This isn't a trick," he replied evenly. "If we are to do business, I want to know why. What worth am I to you? What has Beckett promised you that has you wading through the filth of Tortuga to find me?"

"Who said I came to find you?" Mrs. Prior laid her hands on her lap and rolled back her shoulders. By God, the room was hot and a trickle of salty sweat streamed down her creased brow.

"You were pleased enough by your _catch_." James stuck out a finger and wiped the weeping tallow from the table. "Why am I worth something to you? You are the middle man and some price must have been promised, some bargain must have past between you and Beckett. If I were to guess, I would say that you were his prisoner and he offered you a pardon in exchange for whatever it is you wish to accomplish here."

Mrs. Prior scoffed. "I wasn't his prisoner, sir, I already told you. I was his mistress."

James folded his arms before him. "I daresay it's the same thing."

The chair flew back, bounced once against the floor and then lay still. Mrs. Prior was on her feet and she leaned over the table, leaned over the candle with a wicked leer.

"Mind your words, sir."

James sniffed. "I see I've hit a nerve."

Her eyes narrowed, slits of brown that had once been hazel but were now tarnished. She fingered her bandage. "Perhaps." The chair was righted and she sat with a thud, jerking the table, pushing it away until it slammed into his torso.

"Anger." James watched the wobbling candle. The flame hissed. "Why are you so very angry?"

"That's not a question one should ask unless one is quite prepared for the reply." Mrs. Prior flexed her hands and stared at the fine veins that twined over her knuckles and wily fingers.

James sighed. "And then there is your voice. You speak proper at times, like a parlor raised girl. Perhaps it's all a farce in itself. Perhaps you are a false threat, a lie."

She glanced up at him through hooded, red-rimmed eyes. "I was never keen on philosophy, never quite so learned as you would believe."

"I don't trust you." James arched his neck and looked suspicious. "Pawn, you're a pawn of Beckett's and I cannot place my faith in you."

Mrs. Prior shrugged, slipping out of her sweat-drenched overcoat. "Why must you?"

"If we are to do business-"

"And not dance about riddles-"

"Then I must trust you."

Mrs. Prior leaned back in the chair and let her weight lift the front legs off the floor. "You are _awfully_ finicky for a gutter man."

He grimaced.

"I would certainly say you have no choice," she continued, "unless you enjoy your life now, but I doubt that. Why did you follow me then? Ah, we have come full circle, sir. Back to the beginning. Name your price and I will name my conditions."

"Not until you answer me first." James sounded decisive. Mrs. Prior felt uncomfortable.

She shifted, dropped the chair back down onto it's front legs and crossed her ankles. He shouldn't be permitted to dominate the conversation, to lead her about where he wished. Despite her tendency to pounce first and question later, Mrs. Prior knew how to get an answer when need be. Memories of the humid night in the prison courtyard with Elizabeth Swann ruptured her thoughts. Yes, it was all a game, all great fun provided she kept the other party walking in circles, unknowingly trapped within her net.

But James made things difficult with his questions and with his haunted countenance that seemed to only reflect her own.

A sigh slithered past her lips. "I need you."

Keen appreciation lit James' gaze. "Why?"

"To gain Beckett's favor once more," she said tersely. Her fingers scraped along the rough surface of the table, dragging up splinters and dirt beneath her already stained nails.

"So you are on the outs with him?" James pressed her.

"_Now_, yes."

"But not always?"

"No." Mrs. Prior shook her head and bitter, biting thoughts made her heart thunder in her breast. "I was once _his_."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." The delicacy of James' tone shocked her. He sounded polite almost, like the gentleman he had supposedly once been. But Mrs. Prior could not reconcile his now filthy countenance with the powdered planes of a dandy's face.

"I came with him from England," she continued. "He brought me, imported me if you will."

"As a slave?"

"As a weapon." Her tongue curled against her lips. "And…and a slave," she conceded. "I did some work for him about London, kept on eye on his enemies, dispatched those that became troublesome."

"And how did you enter into his employ in the first place?" James tilted his head to the side, curious.

Mrs. Prior's eyes sharpened in annoyance. "Must you know everything about my existence?"

"Indeed."

"Very well. I came into him employ after he saw me murder a man in London, a man who was our mutual enemy though neither of us knew it at the time. And he was impressed and I was frightened and he offered me a place in his household. He called me his housekeeper and I played the part well for society."

"Hmmm." James emitted an amused little noise. "And the Caribbean? Why did you break with him?"

"I did not _break _with him," Mrs. Prior replied. "I was _taken _from him, sir." She shut her eyes for a instant and remembered pretty Miss Swann, that demon, that devil who had robbed her blind. Pain, a physical memory, touched her wounded hand once more and unconsciously she clutched at the bandage.

Murderess. That Miss Swann was as much of a murderess as she was.

James exhaled sharply. "By what?"

"By whom," Mrs. Prior corrected him.

James lowered his head, prompted and prodded her with his keen eyes.

"Another woman," she said stiffly, "but that's all I shall say."

"Jealous?" His hand fell over hers, clasped her clammy fingers in his and tightened.

"Yes." She pulled away. "So very jealous."

"It's clear to me now." A smile tugged at his lips and he looked satisfied. "So I'm to be a part of some elaborate scheme for revenge. Some filthy sport."

Mrs. Prior sucked on her lower lip. "If you like." She laid her hands before her and looked at him straight, hoping to dissect the buried secrets in his soul, the burden he bore with an anger-stained smile.

Damn it all, they were of the same mind.

And yet here she sat, a crafty murderer. And here he sat, a sloppy drunk. She wondered why pain changed men so, passing thing that it was. Perhaps neither of them were very strong.

Suddenly, she smiled, a true smile, a thirsty, yearning thing that longed for the tender touch of comfort. "I'll tell you the truth."

James leaned forward in his chair. "Do."

"I came looking for an ally, I did, not another pawn. Not another tool. I want a friend."

"And you hope to find one in me?"

Mrs. Prior rolled her eyes. "I was never one for hope, really, immaterial thing that it is."

His face hardened then. His fists slammed against the table, the candle rattling, spitting, shedding wax. James jumped to his feet. "You promised."

"What?" Mrs. Prior turned in her chair and crossed her slim legs. He was standing before her, panting, shaking, muscles so very taut.

"No more games."

She watched him for a minute, waited until he was past his breaking point and stood shattered before. "No," she whispered. "No more games."

He did not possess the regal stoicism of Lord Beckett and when she came to him he yielded effortlessly enough. She kissed him once, twice, three times and then he became greedy. Eager hands tore at her clothes, tried to lift her up and over to the bed, warm fingers around her thighs.

Mrs. Prior pushed him off. "Enough." Her steely voice stopped him.

"But-"

She wanted to make him linger. With a witch's smile she unlocked the door and stepped out onto the top of the stairs. James called her once, twice, three times but still she did not come.

Only when he had fallen silent did Mrs. Prior reenter the room and allowed him to reach for her once more. But ah, he was different now, a quiet creature, humbled, restrained and, yes, so easily _controlled. _


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Author's Note: **Yes, I'm alive! It's been a month since I've updated and I do apologize. My spring semester started and the workload has been a bit more intense than I anticipated. This chapter is more of a series of three interconnected one-shots that cover the Tortuga scene in DMC. I thought it would be rather repetitive for me to rewrite the whole scene, so I tried to dance around it as best I could. Also, I am happy to say that Beckett will be back for the next chapter and he'll resume his active role in the story until the end. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those of you that reviewed, **Mrs.DeppQueenObsessorGoddess**, **Ladybug21**, **Drusilla Braun**, **Scarlet Snidget**, **Lady Elizabeth Beckett **and **cazonetta**. This chapter is especially dedicated to Aliceworld, a talented artist who has been illustrating this story for me. Please check out her wonderful work on my homepage. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean although I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Eighteen**

The shadow was gone. And even though James Norrington was sitting in the tavern, swallowing a stiff pint of rum, he could not escape her chill. His tarnished eyes trailed the rickety banister and reached the staircase that ran along the yellowed wall. The second floor of the inn was all joyous noise now. Raucous. Whores perched on balconies, rum poured in golden streams like ambrosia down on the heads of the unsuspecting. But she was gone, had left the room after him and not returned.

Norrington missed Mrs. Prior.

He had never been one for wenching and despite his indulgence of nearly every sense, despite his debauchery, he had treated the 'ladies' of Tortuga with respect. But Mrs. Prior wasn't a whore, no, she was widow. A weeping, wounded, wretched widow.

He had promised her things too, made vows in-between gasps and groans. She wanted Sparrow's compass. And she wanted more.

An alliance.

Norrington called it such, resorted to the proper military term that reminded him of his navy days. Mrs. Prior wanted them to be friends, partners, she wanted his help.

And he would gladly give it.

They would be a match for Beckett, she convinced him, if they stuck together. She wouldn't mind going back to Port Royal if he swore to follow. Things would be better then and she wouldn't be kicked around, abused by a man who had laid claim to her and created a murderer.

Something of his archaic notion of chivalry stirred within him. He could save her, he could, if they only stayed together.

And they would.

Norrington lowered his aching head and pressed it to his open palm, his pulse beating warmly against his skin. The barkeep haphazardly filled his tankard.

"Thirsty tonight?" he asked in a reedy voice.

"Not particularly."

"And where did you friend run off to?" The barkeep glanced up the stairs with a chuckle.

"I have no idea."

"Didn't have enough money to keep her long, eh?"

Norrington didn't answer.

The whirl of wickedness continued about him. Norrington half-heartedly sipped the rum and then asked for a bottle of something stronger. He was given sailor's grog, plain, unadorned, quite different from the dainty wines he had sipped out of elegant snifters.

He missed her. By God, he missed her.

Why?

She certainly wasn't Elizabeth Swann. No, Mrs. Prior was villain, unlike him, unlike any man or woman he had met. Worse than a pirate, perhaps.

But she needed him and perhaps right now, that was enough.

The barkeep kept a keen eye on him and Norrington frowned as if the man was a physical manifestation of his troubles.

And then he heard it, high, chuckling, a voice chirping above the crowd.

"All right lads! Who wants to join me crew?"

* * *

Dressed as a cabin boy and just as inconspicuous as one, Elizabeth Swann gladly accepted the port of Tortuga as her new-if not permanent-home. She left the relative comfort of the _Edinburgh Trader_, embracing instead the teeming streets and catcalls and drunken stragglers that tumbled against her shoulders. And yet her heart was light, a wide-winged bird that hummed in her breast.

She didn't even mind the smell.

Strange, she thought. Change was indeed a swift, elusive thing. Elizabeth never would have imagined she would feel more comfortable amongst pirates as opposed to her peers. There was an earthiness to these people, a sense of honesty. Of course they lied, of course they cheated and stole and conjured all sorts of mischief. But they did not pretend, did not present themselves with an air of gentility only to…

No.

Elizabeth stopped and dropped out of the street, leaning against a sticky alley wall. She would never think of _him_ again, would chase him from her nightmares and scattered daydreams that only served to remind her of just how far she had fallen.

But how could she forget? Her sins would torment her, gnaw at her heart every time she looked into Will's eyes…if she ever saw him again.

Without thinking, Elizabeth gathered a mouthful of spit and discharged it to the muddy pool by her feet. The rather crude, plebian act made her feel surprisingly strong again, freed her from a cage she had been trapped in for nearly twenty years.

Scruples did a woman little good and she shed them now like snake's skin. She needn't be kept chained, locked in a man's world where she was indeed treated like chattel. No this world, this Tortuga was different.

She could be free. She could forget.

And yet something bothered her, something indefinite that made her pause and blink in the yellow moonlight.

Mrs. Prior had no scruples. What did that make her then?

Inhuman, she decided. Mrs. Prior was inhuman and Elizabeth was not.

Or so she hoped.

Elizabeth returned to the street. The crowd thickened, coming in like the tide and bringing with it a gangly throng of motley men. Elizabeth blinked. Hmm, she fancied she recognized a few of the faces but her harried mind must be playing tricks, deceiving her like so many men, like _him_.

She followed the general flow debarking mass up the street and into the square, which comprised mostly of taverns and what she guessed was a whorehouse. Most of the men, especially those with coin in their pockets, gravitated towards that particular building. Elizabeth paused and inspected the line of waiting johns with an odd sense of curiosity. She could have sworn she knew them, had seen them aboard the _Interceptor _with Jack Sparrow.

It was possible, of course. Pirates were nomads and they probably hopped from one ship to another as they pleased. Elizabeth wondered if she should approach them, ask if they had any news of Jack or better, Will.

But the crowd poured against her, a stream of bodies that stank and stumbled and staggered by. She turned to step away and collided with a dark figure, a cold shadow amongst the moldy pirates.

"My apologies," she mumbled.

The figure grunted, head bent and darted away.

Elizabeth glanced once more at the whorehouse and was disappointed when she couldn't find the familiar faces again.

Ah well, she had time.

Her parched tongue reminded her of her thirst and it stuck to the roof of her mouth. Hmm, she wasn't partial to rum but her days of elegant wine and brandy were over. Elizabeth entered one of the shabby taverns.

A fiddle twittered merrily in the corner of the ratty room, an old, wax weeping chandelier swinging from the rotting ceiling. The air was hot, flushing her cheeks at once. She wove her way through a sea of elbows and ankles and otherwise greasy bodies. And then there was silence, dreadful silence and the constant ebb and flow of people stopped.

Elizabeth craned her neck. What was this?

"You're hired!" an unmistakable voice chirruped.

Elizabeth swallowed hard.

"Sorry," a second voice, this one a mere ghost of it's former glory, rose like a thunder cloud over the packed tavern room. "Old habits and all that."

* * *

Mrs. Prior was standing in an alcove, shoulder to a wall, hands jammed into her pockets, giving every appearance of a disturbed shade that would flit away once the night fled. But for now she was queen when the stars reigned and a gloomy moon frowned over Tortuga like a murderous mother.

She flinched. Murderous mothers were more common than men liked to think.

Her fingers were stiff and she wriggled them. She sniffed, stared at the street crowded with drunken sailors and weaving prostitutes and the utter filth of the earth.

It was done.

But strangely, she didn't feel particularly accomplished. She had James, had him for a pet like Beckett had once possessed her. Yet everything could be a waste if he swallowed another bottle of rum and forgot her. Mrs. Prior would have to make him promise. She would have to make him swear. He had remember her when the time came.

Smoke rose from sooty chimneys, circled the sky, pale against the black. Torches flickered like demon tongues. Mrs. Prior blinked. She didn't feel right, no, felt weak, wobbly, asleep atop her feet. Where was he?

He came an hour late. She saw him down by the docks, sneaking up the streets to her, eyes over his shoulders, cautious. But he was drunk again, bloody hell and covered by mud.

She frowned.

Disgusting fool.

James did not see her at first and she was forced to step out of the alcove and extend a beckoning finger.

"Here," she whispered.

His head jerked, like a dog's, hackles raised for an instant until he saw her.

"Mrs. Prior," he panted and fell into her.

She embraced him, ignoring the smell. "Is it done?"

"It is."

"So soon?"

"Yes. Luck is indeed your bedmate."

"Surely you exaggerate." Mrs. Prior removed her spotted, stained handkerchief from her pocket and mopped his face free of mud.

He smiled crookedly at her. "I found Sparrow."

She raised a brow.

James took her hand in his, drew the handkerchief away. "I'll try to wrangle my way onto his ship. Should be easy enough. Why…why are you so pale?"

"It's no matter." She stuffed the handkerchief away and wiped her own sweaty brow with the back of her hand.

"You look ill."

"I said it is no matter."

He leaned against the wall beside her and they stood shoulder to shoulder. Mrs. Prior could hear him breathe, his sides rising, falling, rising against hers. She shivered, skin prickling.

"What else have you?" she asked, a cough clearing her throat.

"I've met an old friend," he replied and she thought his voice sounded strangled.

"Oh? How very peculiar. Who is he?"

"She." James stared at his brown boots.

A knot tightened in Mrs. Prior's stomach and left her nauseous. Another woman. Surely that was a bad sign. She needed to keep James isolated, needed to keep him for herself if he was to do her any good.

"Who?"

He glanced at her briefly. "A woman, a girl I knew for time. Elizabeth Swann."

"Where?" Mrs. Prior shook, her every nerve ablaze, joints loosened, muscles tense. She felt the whore's windpipe beneath her fingers once more.

James stared. "You know her?"

Mrs. Prior took a step back and left the dark comfort of the alcove. She had slipped, said something she shouldn't have and that was rare indeed. "Never mind," she said and touched James' chest lightly, hoping to wash away the error with lust.

"You _do _know her." He was incredulous.

"Once upon a time," Mrs. Prior admitted and she curled her tongue against her lips, striving to ignore the bitter taste of bile that bloomed in her throat. "Never mind, dear, never mind."

A kiss would smooth away all ills, she decided and with a seductive sneer, she drew closer to him. But James grabbed her shoulders and pushed her roughly back into the alcove.

Mrs. Prior gasped in surprise. "Wretch!"

"How do you know Elizabeth?" he asked. His voice was a growl and Mrs. Prior raised a brow, half-shocked, but wholly impressed.

"In Port Royal," she muttered. "When my lord took up residence there. That's it though, no funny business. What? You don't think I'd lie to you, do you?"

James stared at her. "What else? Tell me!"

He was shouting, drawing attention to them. Mrs. Prior glanced over his large, looming shoulder into the street and saw only a soused boatswain pausing to watch.

"Quiet," she warned James and her hand slithered up his throat. "Be quiet and I'll tell you. Don't know what you expect from me, really. Never saw the girl to begin with, as it was. But I overheard my lord saying she was trouble and had something to do with that Jack Sparrow. That's all I know, understand? All this fuss for naught. God's sake, keep your wits about you! Now do you remember what I told you?"

James shuddered once, then nodded. "I do."

"Then we'll be alright." Mrs. Prior grasped his hand in hers. "Two is better than one any day."

"Any day," James replied somewhat cynically, but there were tears in his eyes. "I ought to be off now."

"You'll be fine," she assured him and to her great surprise, something of her old maternal instinct squirmed to life in her breast. "You know where to find me when all is said and done."

"Port Royal."

"Bring the damned compass."

"I promise."

There was nothing left to be said and they stood together in silence for an awkward moment. And then one of them moved or perhaps they both did and a kiss was shared, his mouth longing, hers pained, aching.

They parted.

Mrs. Prior watched as he returned to the docks, his steps surer, off in search of Sparrow's ship. The murderous moon hid behind a cloud.

"Whew!" she sighed once he had disappeared. "If he mucks this up, I swear to God, I'll…I'll throttle him!"


End file.
